Rites of Spring
by Mattk
Summary: Sequel to Face to Face: On the eve of Beltane, the heroes confront the one foe who has always defeated them.
1. Preparations

_Those were the rites of spring, _

_And we did everything._

_There was salvation every night._

_We got our dreams reborn, _

_And our upholstery torn_

_But everything we tried was right._

**-Meatloaf: "Objects in the Rear View Mirror"**

_Let the Revels begin, let the fire be started._

_We're dancin' for the desperate and the broken-hearted._

**-"Tonight is What it Means to be Young." From "Streets of Fire"**

Puffing and red-faced, Xander dropped an armload of logs on the already impressive pile, brushed off his hands, and looked around in disgust at the blasted moonscape of the desert.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" He asked, as he had after each load of logs he'd carried.

"Quite sure," Giles answered, his tone clipped. This was the last time he was going to say this. "The prophecy says that the Merlin shall lead them into the holy wastes. I'm Buffy's advisor, and a magician to boot. That makes me the Merlin. And these are the holy wastes."

Xander was about to ask "what makes you so sure?" for the third time when Willow, who was nearby, drawing the ritual's prescribed glyphs on a flat boulder, piped up:

"I don't know. It just seems weird. I would've expected a Beltane rite to be held someplace that had more—well, trees."

"I would as well," Giles answered a bit more patiently. This was just Willow's first time asking. "But it does specify 'wastes', and this is a holy place. A nexus of good to counterbalance the evil of the Hellmouth."

"And it's just been doing a bang-up job of that," Anya said as she arrived with a box of ritual oils, some of which had been specified, and others which were "old standbys" that had been brought "just in case."

"They were more evenly matched when both were desert wastelands," Giles explained. "This place was visited by Chumash warriors seeking visions and power to fight the monsters that came to the Hellmouth. But then the Chumash were destroyed and Sunnydale was founded, and the balance was broken. The Hellmouth grew bloated on a century of death, while this place, bereft of its tenders, declined in power."

Willow and Tara looked at each other.

"Quote?" Tara asked.

Willow shook her head. "Paraphrase," she declared. Then she looked at Giles. "Giles?"

Giles deflated. "Paraphrase," he admitted. "Failed quote. There were a few lines where I could only remember the gist."

Buffy was the next one to come over the ridge into and down the path into the sandy bowl in the rocks that formed the holy place. She carried more than Xander, but not really so much more. Slayer strength didn't make her arms any longer.

Buffy had tried to use the "old-fashioned gal" dodge she'd used to avoid digging up graves during the Epps brothers' search for the perfect woman. Unfortunately for that, Angel was on hand to point out that _his_ idea of an "old-fashioned gal" wouldn't be attending college, seeing boys without a chaperone, driving—_ever_—or wearing pants.

The ensouled vampire in question was the next to come over the ridge. It had been wise to wait until sunset to start this job. Heat stroke issues aside, it would have been foolish to start the heavy manual labor with one of the superpeople unable to participate.

"You know, I almost wish Spike was here," Buffy said as she dropped her load of logs. "Another pair of super-strong arms would definitely make the work go faster."

"What makes you think he would help?" Angel asked.

"With two Slayers and a _whole_ bunch'a wood around?" Buffy countered.

"Good point," Angel agreed. "Too bad the 'Demon of the Iron Nails' is forbidden on pain of suffering 'that which he fears most'."

"I _like_ this prophecy," Willow chirped. "We all get such cool names."

"Like what?" Xander asked, sitting down on a rock and taking a swig of water. "I haven't read it."

"You'll see," she answered. "It's part of the ritual."

"That's the last of it," Riley announced as he and Gunn dropped their armloads onto the pile, which stood shoulder-high on Riley by now. Gunn's pickup had been stacked high with logs. "Do we have everything we need?"

Giles pulled the Elysian Prophecies out of his back pocket and flipped through it for a moment. "Let's see," He said. "Logs. Check. Herbs?"

"Check," Willow answered, holding up a shopping bag filled with ziploc bags full of various different herbs and powders. Once again, it was a case of bringing along some extras "Just to be on the safe side", in addition to the ones that they'd been directed to bring.

"Oils—Anya, put that back!—check."

He quickly ran through the rest of the remarkably clear section of prophecy, and found that they were all set.

Neither Giles nor Wesley had ever _seen _a prophecy so helpful. It read like a poetic grocery list. From the candles, to the incense, to the tambourines and hand-held drum, to the various props and costume pieces, it had all been laid out.

It made everyone a little bit nervous.

"So why don't we get started?" Gunn asked. "If we got all the gear, what are we waiting for?"

"Midnight," Giles answered, shutting the book.

--

And so they waited.

They built another, smaller campfire, and gathered around it. They roasted hot dogs over it (Tara's were tofu) and had their dinner. Afterward, Oz got out his guitar, Willow got out some ingredients for s'mores, and Xander noticed someone was missing.

--

He found Faith sitting among the rocks, looking down on the dell.

"Hey," she greeted him.

"We're making s'mores down there," he said, holding up the one he'd brought with him. "Want one?"

"Nah."

"You sure?" He took a bite of his. "Ah cun get um good an' gowden brown." He swallowed. "Or are you a 'charcoaled' girl?"

"I'm sure," she snapped. "Thanks anyway," she added, softly, after a moment.

Xander had, in the past, been guilty of obliviousness, poor grades, and various other shortcomings of perception, attention, or comprehension. But he was far from stupid. It was absolutely clear that Faith wanted to be left alone up here. It was just as clear what he needed to do:

Redouble his efforts.

"You should still come down. You _need _to hear Giles sing 'Don't Fear The Reaper'. I'm risking my sanity saying this out loud, but even _Tara_ says its kind'a sexy."

Faith wasn't stupid either. Xander had clearly been hanging out with the girly-girls too long, and seen one too many romantic comedies. Well, she'd dealt with guys who thought "not interested" meant "try harder" before. She'd try talking before she resorted to her usual method.

"Why don't you give it up?" She snapped. "Being nice isn't really your specialty."

But he'd expected this, and volleyed right back. "What, you're the only one who can turn over a new leaf?"

Turn over a new leaf. It was a grotesque joke. How could she get back to even with the house if she wasn't allowed to pay what she owed? She'd been enjoying the furlough, sure, but she'd fully expected to go back.

Anyone else might have said these things. Faith didn't talk about her feelings. It wasn't that she thought talking about your feelings was a sign of weakness or anything—she had once, but she'd learned better—but talking didn't really help her. She couldn't talk about some of this shit, anyway. She just didn't have the words. Instead, she needed to _do _something. Gunn understood. But she did have something else she needed to talk to Xander about.

"That reminds me," she said. "You're the only one I haven't gotten to yet."

"The ohnly wun whut?" He asked around the last mouthful of marshmallow and graham cracker. Then he started to suck the sticky remnants off his fingers.

"The only one I haven't apologized to," she said. "I talked to Red, and B, and Mom, and Wes, and Cordy—but not you."

He waved it off. "Don't worry about it."

"Xander, I tried to strangle you. You don't just wave and not worry about it."

"Sure you do." He gave large, exaggerated waves. "Don't. Worry. About. It," he mouthed slowly and precisely.

"Stop it."

"Not funny?"

"No."

"Sorry."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Knowing that the silence would last until midnight if he waited for her, Xander tried a new topic: "So! Uh…where's Gunn?"

"I told him I had to piss."

"Your man's a little gullible, huh?" He asked, nudging her in what he intended to be a good-humored, conspiratorial way.

"No, I really had to piss," she answered. She thrust a thumb over her shoulder. "Marked my territory back there, out of the circle. Didn't want to piss off the gods."

"Good idea."

"Me and him don't hang all over each other, like _some_ people do," she said, nudging him back. He glanced at her and was delighted to see the first ghosts of a smile on her lips. "He won't necessarily notice I've been gone too long any sooner than anybody else."

"That's gonna be pretty soon," Xander pointed out. "We should get back."

"I don't know if I should," she said, the smile fading from her face. "I don't know if I belong anyplace that's holy."

The simple, frightening truth that Xander heard in her voice was that she believed that. That was just too big for him to deal with. Someone else—perhaps Gunn—would have to get her past her self-hatred. All he could do was get her back to the fire.

"Well, that's too bad," he said, forcing cheer back into his voice. " 'Cause that's where the family reunion is, young lady, and you're going."

He didn't get the weak chuckle he'd hoped for. Instead, she sighed. "That's another thing that's hard to get used to," she said. "All this…'family' shit. I mean, my family wasn't exactly what you'd call Norman Rockwell."

As was said before, Xander was not stupid by any means. Sometimes he could Have Thoughts, and Plans—but right now he was having an Understanding. Faith was uncomfortable with all of the attention and closeness, yes, but that was something she could get over. But the fact that she felt unworthy of something good—because of her own family (oh, he knew how _that_ could mess you up), and because of what she'd done—that was something different. She needed to know that she wasn't the only mongrel pup the Scooby Gang had adopted off the street. "Neither was mine," Xander said.

"It wasn't?"

"I don't know what my father would talk about if he wasn't drunk," he said. "And hell, I'm not the only one. Willow's parents treat her like a psychology experiment, Cordy's dad raised her with his checkbook—we're all messed up. Even Giles and Wesley, I think. Why do you think we all made our _own_ family?"

"Xander?" A voice called.

"Where's he gotten to?"

"Oops, looks like we waited too long," Xander said.

"We?" Faith retorted. "They're looking for you."

"Wait, where's Faith?"

"Faith? Where are you?"

Xander looked at her archly. "You were saying?"

Stunned, she allowed him to take her by the hand and start leading her down the trail. They hadn't gone far, however before she stopped, bringing him to a jolting halt. "Wait," she said. "Before we go, I have to know something."

"What's that?" He asked.

"How can you just…" She waved her hand. "…Like that?"

He shrugged. "I never really held it against you," he said. "I don't know why—maybe it was because the very next second you got hit upside the head with a baseball bat. Anyway, even if I did hold a grudge, I'd forgive you. I'm turning over a new leaf, you see, and it's something I was never very good at before. Now, come on."

--

Xander led Faith back into the dell. Giles scolded them briefly for staying away so long and worrying everyone so. This may be a holy place, but they were facing a Big Bad tonight, and Big Bads liked to pick off stragglers. It was part of what made them Big Bads.

Faith looked dutifully contrite and mumbled an apology, but Xander could barely restrain a grin.

The scolding over, Xander led Faith to the fire to make the s'more he had offered. Giles, watching them go, shook his head helplessly and turned away, only to nearly crash into Joyce, who'd been standing at his shoulder with a disapproving expression while he'd been scolding. They both froze, their eyes accidentally locked. Then the moment passed and they hurried away from each other like people who've shared too much of themselves, and don't have the courage to find out if it had been a mistake.

--

Riley sat down on a boulder beside Willow, a stick with a charred marshmallow on the end in one hand, a graham cracker and a piece of candy bar in the other.

"Look at that," he said, gesturing with his stick.

"Look at what?" Willow asked. She was already watching the fire. Oz had offered to make Tara a s'more, but she'd replied that no one else could make marshmallows the way she liked them. Oz's wolf-instincts had taken the challenge, and now they squatted on opposite sides of the fire, each trying to get a marshmallow _perfectly_ golden brown, but not the slightest bit singed. Xander had just arrived to a hug of greeting and a smack on the head from Anya.

"Why isn't Anya acting all jealous?" Riley asked. "Xander disappeared into the rocks with another woman."

"Do _you_ think something happened?" Willow asked.

"No, but—"

"Anya knows him, too. Better than you."

"I should hope so."

"Besides, that's not his 'just got laid' face. That's his 'just helped someone and a little washed-out because of it' face."

Riley stared at her blankly. "I guess you _really_ know him."

"Best friend since babyhood. I _hope_ I know him."

Riley inserted his marshmallow between the halves of the graham cracker and pulled it off the stick. "So…" he said. "This prophecy. I heard you telling Xander that we all get cool names."

"Yup," she chirped. "Actually, some of us have more than one." Then she pouted. "It seems like the more of an 'in' you have with the PTB's, the more names you get." She glared up at him. He apparently had a lot of names, and she seemed to suspect him of brown-nosing the PTB's to get them.

"Really," he said, carefully hiding his amusement. An angry Willow was a terrifying thing. A petulant Willow was too cute. Then he mentally brushed aside the distraction and returned to his serious purpose. "Will we be hearing _all _of those names in the ritual?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nope. Just one name apiece."

"You mind telling me some of the names that I _won't _get to hear, then?" He asked carefully. "I'm curious."

"Well, you're the Galahad," Willow began.

"And Giles is the Merlin. Does that make Buffy the Arthur?"

"Uh-huh."

Galahad. Arthur's purest and most noble knight. He liked that. Still, there was one knight whose name was even more renowned. "Is there a Lancelot?" He asked.

"Um…Angel," Willow said.

Angel. Lancelot. Arthur's mightiest warrior, dearest friend, and second-greatest traitor. The one who had broken both Camelot and Arthur's heart, though neither had ever been his intention.

It worked.

Riley wouldn't be surprised if he asked and discovered that Faith was the Mordred. At least Lancelot and Guinevere had never _meant_ to hurt anyone.

Willow apparently realized that she had stumbled into dangerous territory. She was beginning to babble in what she probably hoped was a distracting way. "This whole Arthurian thing actually works really well, you know? Because—you know—'the King and the land are one', and whenever Buffy's in a bad way, Sunnydale suffers, but when she's at her peak, Sunnydale thrives. And Xander's the Percival, did you know that? And that works, 'cause he's not the mightiest knight or anything, but he's the one who healed the King—"

"Is there a Guinevere?" Riley asked softly.

"—and then the _Carmina Burana _started playing, and—sorry?"

"We have an Arthur, a Lancelot, and a Galahad. Is there a Guinevere?"

"Um—uh—" She glanced back at the fire anxiously, to see Oz blowing out his sugary, gooey torch while Tara grinned up at him triumphantly (oblivious of the fact that, while her attention was diverted, her own marshmallow was catching) and Xander offered to eat it. Just a little longer—

"Please, Willow. Just tell me."

"I—I really shouldn't," She said. "You're not supposed to—"

"Please?"

She sighed and dropped her head. "Yes," she admitted.

"Who is it?"

"That's the problem," she said miserably. Sometimes it seems to be referring to Angel, sometimes you. Sometimes it changes in the middle of a stanza—the middle of a _line_, even. That's the part of the prophecy we really can't figure out. It might refer to either, or even neither of you."

"Or maybe both," he said.

Willow watched her own two lovers approach, rueful grins on their faces and s'mores in their hands. Well, "lovers" wasn't quite the right word. She hadn't re-consummated with Oz yet. What would she call him then? It was all so confusing.

"Or maybe," she agreed.

_Maybe…_The word spun in his head. Maybe he hadn't been such a fool after all. _Maybe…maybe…_

--

After Faith and Xander's brief disappearance, it was decreed that no one should wander off into the night alone. Everyone who left the circle of the firelight would have at least one companion, preferably one of the superpeople. This was no great hardship for the women, for whom going to the bathroom in packs was the natural order of things. For the men, it was a bit more of a trial.

--

"You done?" Buffy asked as Cordelia emerged from behind her chosen rock. The men of Angel Investigations would have been stunned at how little time she'd taken. The reason was simple: there were no mirrors out here. Anyone else might have taken a second or two less and emerged zipping her fly or buckling her belt, but Cordelia Chase refused to be seen with anything out of place.

"No," Cordelia replied sarcastically. "I still have to pee. I just thought I'd go back to the fire and find someone else I'd _rather_ duck into the rocks with."

Buffy felt heat rising to her cheeks, and she was glad Cordelia couldn't see her blush. It _had_ been a dumb question. "Good," she said as she turned away. "Let's go."

"Wait," Cordelia said.

"What?" Buffy snapped, whipping back around.

"Aren't you going to make some kind of joke about deviant sexual practices?" Cordelia asked. When Buffy just stared at her blankly, she rolled her eyes. "God, I just gave you a perfect opening for a nice, tension-relieving bicker and you completely drop the ball. What is the matter with you lately? You've hardly spoken a word since LA."

Buffy was still staring at her blankly. "You find bickering…relaxing?" She asked.

"Hello, that whole topic? Done already," Cordelia said. "Try to keep up. What I'm asking is why you've been so closed-off lately."

Buffy was still staring, but her face was no longer blank. Instead, it was a mixture of suspicious and incredulous. "Are you serious?" she asked. "You really don't know?"

"Me? How would _I _know?" Cordelia asked.

Buffy could only shake her head in disbelief and frustration. "Cordelia, you should know…better than _anyone_."

Cordelia had never been accused of the deficits of perception that Xander had. Her entire life, before she had thrown in with the Scooby Gang, had been based on reading other people. She made the necessary connections quickly. "Oh, you mean because I walked in on you?"

Buffy winced.

"Well, I can see why you'd be embarrassed around me," Cordelia allowed, "But why are you being so antisocial around everyone else? Especially Angel and Riley? One minute, you're about to boff them both, the next you're barely talking to either. How does that follow?"

"If you think about it, you've answered your own question," Buffy answered softly.

Cordelia cocked her head and stared at the girl she'd once thought of as her nemesis in confusion. For the first time, she really _noticed_ that Buffy's shoulders were drooping, and that she refused to meet her eyes. A dozen tiny clues that she'd only half-known she was collecting fell into place, and she understood. "You're not embarrassed," she said, amazed. "You're _ashamed_."

Buffy chewed on her lip for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I guess I am," she admitted.

"Why?"

And Buffy was back to staring blankly. "Why? But…two guys…slutty…taking advantage…how could I tell…"

"What, you're ashamed because you were going to have a threesome? In terms of perversity, that's _nothing _compared to the fact that one of them is _dead_."

That rocked Buffy even further back on her heels. She hadn't thought of it that way. And it was pretty ick-worthy, so she would think of it that way as little as possible. "Uh, good point."

"Besides, who were you afraid to tell in _this _bunch?" Cordelia scoffed. "Haven't you noticed a high proportion of what you might call, oh, slightly non-traditional relationships? Faith and Gunn have the interracial thing going on, and I think they're the closest thing to normal we have. Xander's boinking a thousand-year-old ex-vengeance demon who used to destroy men, but now just squeals loud enough to destroy windows. Willow has a bisexual threesome with three nights a month of bestiality, how does your drama measure up against that?" She paused, considering her next words. "I, myself, fell in love with a spiky-headed demon."

"Wesley?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes and shook her head. "No. His name was Doyle. You met him for about a minute or two the time you came stomping into our office, pissed off that Angel had rescued you. He had a demon face, like Angel, but his looked just like the groom's family from that wedding party."

Buffy had heard what had happened to Doyle, and she wanted to say 'I'm Sorry.' But Cordelia had, more than once, said how much she hated it that people said 'I'm sorry' when they learned that someone's loved one had died. Generally, it wasn't their fault, and it never changed anything. Instead, Buffy said "It's funny how it doesn't seem ugly when it's someone you care about, isn't it? You learn to love the demon face just as much as the human one."

"Yeah," Cordelia said softly, her eyes taking on a far-off look. "It's a face you can learn to love." She paused for a moment, then shook herself back to reality.

"Look, I don't want to get either touchy or feely about this, but my point is this: you have two hot guys who absolutely adore you, and you love both of them, and can I just say how much I envy you? I don't blame you for wanting to keep both of them, and if I can't blame you, and they don't seem to blame you, then who will? It's not like you just picked them up off the street."

"No," Buffy murmured. "It isn't." Wheels were beginning to turn in her head. This was _Cordelia_ who was saying this. Cordelia, who had traditionally grabbed everything she could possibly use for ammunition and aimed it at weak points. If _Cordelia_ wasn't judging her, maybe…just maybe…

"I say, if you want to spend the remainder of what's likely to be a very short life with both of them, then go for it."

Buffy winced, and her train of thought derailed. "Thanks," she said dryly.

"What?"

"Come on," she said, taking the May Queen-turned-Seer by the arm. "Let's get back to the fire before you cheer me up some more."

But as they headed back to the fire, confusion and wish were spinning in her head, blending into a single word: _Maybe…maybe…_

--

Angel had just had a conversation with Wesley, much like the one Riley had had with Willow, and he was sitting, stunned, on a boulder just out of range of the warm circle of firelight.

_Two…? What could it mean? Could it…? No. Of course not. That's impossible._

His fevered musings were interrupted when Joyce sat down beside him. "Hi," she said tentatively.

"Uh…hi."

"Buffy just went off with Cordelia," Joyce said. "So we have a moment. I was just wondering—I mean, I'm not trying to be…I know I'm not supposed to…I don't mean to pry, but…" She paused, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "I couldn't help but notice that Buffy has seemed depressed," she said very slowly and carefully. "Do you know what happened? I'm trying not to be intrusive, but I'm still her mother."

_Riley and I tried to have a threesome with your daughter, and it didn't work out, killing any hope of straightening this thing out between us without _somebody _getting hurt. That's why Buffy is depressed._

No, he didn't think that one would fly very well. "I'm sorry. I think that's Buffy's to tell," he said.

"I know," she sighed, staring at the rocky ground. "But I'm always the last person she tells. Do you know what that's like? She's the person I care about—_worry_ about—most in the world, and she always comes to me last. After everything is already over." She kicked a stone away, sending it bouncing into the desert. "Daughters aren't supposed to protect their mothers. It's supposed to be the other way around." She sniffled, and the next words came out as a sob. "Damn it."

Once again, Angel found himself in a position he never thought he would be in, wondering how he got there, contemplating just how complicated his existence had become since he'd entered his orbit around Buffy Summers' life.

He reached out to pat Joyce on the back, but at the first contact she'd turned, thrown her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder. Awkwardly, painfully conscious of just how much she smelled like Buffy, he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back in a way that he hoped was as comforting for her as it was for her daughter. He was glad that they were out of easy view of the people at the fire.

"Shh," He murmured. "It's alright. It's okay. Everything is going to be okay." It was weak, and he knew it was, but he couldn't think of anything better.

"How is it okay?" She demanded. "What can't she tell me? I know that she's in love with both of you. So what? What does that matter?"

Leave it to a Summers woman to completely rock him back on his feet. "Huh?"

"I wouldn't have cared—or even really been surprised—if she'd come home and told me she was in love with _Willow_. What does it matter who she loves? She's still my daughter, and I love _her_. I accepted that she was the Slayer, but I took so long. Is that what's wrong? Did I mess up so badly?"

Angel took her by the shoulders and held her out away from him, looking her directly in the eye. "You did the best you could," he said. "That's all anyone can do, and you did better than many. I understand, and I'm pretty sure Buffy understands. If she doesn't, she will." He paused, and his face grew perplexed. "I'm just surprised that _you_ understand."

She knew what he was referring to. "She's still my daughter," she repeated. "And I know that both you and Riley are…doing the best that you can."

"Thank you," he said. "That means a lot." Then something occurred to him. "Isn't there someone whose shoulder you'd rather be crying into than mine?"

Her face grew downcast again. "I don't know," she said. "After the fight with Angelus was over, things just kind of…got weird. This is the second time that we've been together in an emergency and…done things we ordinarily wouldn't. Now I'm wondering if it wasn't all just a big mistake. Maybe I went too far too fast and scared him off. Maybe we would have been better off staying just the mother and father."

"Maybe he's having this same conversation with someone else," he said. Then he considered that for a moment. "Or, more likely, with himself. He _is_ British."

"Do you really think so?"

He glanced across the fire, to where Giles was apparently drawing in the dirt with a stick. Angel hoped he didn't absent-mindedly summon something. The Watcher looked away just a moment too late, and Angel realized that he'd been watching a good portion of the conversation, despite their secluded position.

"Yes," He answered. Then he stood up, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "One last thing: traditionally, the mother and father are also husband and wife. Or at least lovers. It's how the children get here in the first place, and it helps the two to work as a team."

Joyce restrained herself from demanding if he was passing some kind of eighteenth-century judgment on her divorce. As far as she could tell, Angel didn't judge anyone. What he was saying was encouragement, not criticism.

Not everyone was as judgmental as her mother.

"You two already have all the children you could ever want, probably more. Somebody else made them, but abandoned them to you. But that doesn't mean that you have to give up the other half, does it?"

She shook her head.

"Good answer." He patted her on the shoulder and walked away.

She looked across the fire at Giles, and once again he looked away too slowly, and their eyes met.

It was easy to forget that Angel was not, as he appeared, several years younger than she was. That he was, in fact, hundreds of years older. He could be her great-grandfather, many times removed. Perhaps his advice was worth listening to.

And in two more minds, the word was spinning:

_Maybe…maybe…maybe…_


	2. The Ritual

**Remember back in **_**Devil's Truth**_** when I warned that I was going to use real-world religious figures for the Powers That Be and the Lower Beings? Well, Belial was just the warm-up. Here's where we really get going. Again, hope nobody's offended. **

**Another note: the real-world religious figure in this chapter is based on modern beliefs, not classical mythology, so that figure may seem inaccurate to a student of that mythology. Just stay with me. **

"So how many sheets did we murder for _this_ ritual?" Buffy asked as she selected a white robe out of the box that Giles had brought forward shortly after eleven.

"I'll have you know that these are top-quality robes," Giles huffed. "I had them on order before all this started. With all the witches in Sunnydale, I do better business at Beltane than a candy shop at Halloween."

"Yeah? Where did you order them from, Big Thor's Pagan Supplies for Trucks?" Buffy asked, holding up her arms—from which roughly an extra foot of empty sleeve hung.

"Take off that extra-large, give it to Riley, and find a small," He snapped. No one insulted his merchandise. "Did you think these were one size fits all?" Instead of giving the robe to anyone, she just tossed it back to him with a smirk, and began to dig in the box again. "I'd have thought you'd be grateful," he muttered. "After all, this ritual is somewhat similar to traditional Wiccan and Druidic ceremonies—or _they're_ somewhat similar to _it_, it's hard to tell. In any case, our options were white robes or skyclad."

She looked up at him quizzically. "Skyclad?"

"Naked," Tara supplied calmly as she held a small robe against her front, changed her mind, and went back for a medium.

Buffy looked at Giles, her eyes wide.

Smirking, he nodded.

Buffy bent her head back to the task at hand and began to dig through the robes more frantically. "I'll take the robes," she said.

"I thought you might."

--

"Hey, Wes!"

Wesley jumped. He'd been walking the circle of the sacred dell with his copy of the Elysian Prophecies in hand, double-checking their preparations, and he hadn't been paying attention to anything else.

In a reaction that had nearly become a reflex in his time with Angel, he snapped around toward the source of the sound and whipped a knife out of the belt-sash of his robe.

Unfortunately, the knife was an athame that Giles had given him "on the house" for the ceremony. It was thus unsharpened and rather useless as a weapon.

Fortunately, Faith and Gunn had little intention of harming him.

"Whoa!" Faith said, holding up her hands as they both leaped back. "Better switch to some decaf Earl Grey, there, Wes."

"I'm sorry," Wesley apologized, blushing invisibly in the dimness. "You startled me."

"It's dangerous to surprise _anyone_ in this group, isn't it?" Gunn asked. "What should I do, blow a horn in front of me?"

"That might actually be wise," Wesley said, slipping the athame back into his belt.

Not for the first time, Gunn cursed Wesley's absolute straight-faced, deadpan sense of humor. It was impossible to tell when the man was joking or not. He wondered if it was a British trait, or if Wesley was weird even over there.

"What'cha doin'?" Faith asked.

"Just double-checking," Wesley said, returning to the Prophecies.

"Isn't it called 'octuple-checking' after this many times?" Faith asked innocently.

Wesley turned and gave them the evil eye, but the two miscreants just smiled back.

"She's right," Gunn agreed, pointing at Faith. "You got a real obsessive-compulsive thing going here."

"Oh, yes," Wesley said sourly. "I know it's quite silly of me to wish to be prepared when our 'greatest foe' arrives. I do apologize for it. You must think me a lunatic. But indulge me anyway."

"Jeez, no need to bite our heads off," Faith said.

Gunn had been reminded of something by Wesley's rant. "Do we have any suspects on 'the Horned One' yet?" He asked.

"Far too many," Wesley replied absently, kneeling to examine a crystal that had been positioned in the notch between two rocks that had once been one—which were in the exact location and position that the Prophecy said they would be. This thing was scary.

"Yeah," Faith agreed. "I bet a lot of demons have horns."

"A lot of demons, several gods, and at least one angel."

"Gods?" Faith said. "Yeesh. Do they give any easy ones?"

"Not that they bother to write prophecies about."

"Well, I guess a god would count as our greatest foe," Gunn said.

"Why do you assume that the 'Horned One' is our foe at all?" Wesley said. "For all we know, the Horned One could be coming to _help _us with out greatest foe. All we know for sure is that they're both arriving tonight."

"Good point," Gunn agreed.

"Prophecies are tricky things," Wesley said. "But here's a question for you: in the past week we've defeated Belial, one of the most powerful beings in existence. We've also destroyed Angelus, the enemy who cast his shadow on all of our lives for years. If neither of them were our greatest foe, then who is?"

Wesley stood up and turned back to them, and for the first time he realized just how young they looked, with their customary armorlike leather covered up by the soft robes. "Think about it," He said. "I know I am."

--

"Do I really have to do this?" Buffy whined.

"I'm afraid no one else can," Giles replied.

"Fine, fine," Buffy surrendered. "Please tell me that the prophecy doesn't rule out cue cards."

"No," Giles deadpanned, handing her a stack of index cards. "It doesn't."

"Thanks," she said sarcastically, shuffling through them. "Tell me again why I'm stuck with the public speaking?"

"Not all of it," Giles said. "And it's because you're our queen."

"But my mother is not only alive, she's right _here_," Buffy protested. "Shouldn't I be a princess?"

Giles shook his head. "A leader is the person who does the leading. All of us—even she, even I—have come to obey your orders more often than we try to give them. That makes your mother the dowager queen, and you the actual ruler."

"I'm going to tell her you said that."

"Please don't. She's far too young a woman to be a 'dowager'."

"If you say so." Then an idea struck her, and her face brightened. "What about a king? Shouldn't there be a king out there, doing most of the talking?"

Giles shook his head, grinning ruefully. Why couldn't she be this resourceful in her studies? "There were some societies in the ancient world where the king was nothing more than the consort of the queen. Strangely enough, I think our little society is much the same."

Though they hadn't noticed it while it was happening, they both suddenly realized that the area where they stood speaking had become much brighter. The others had lit the great fire.

Giles glanced at his watch. They couldn't depend on Angel's instincts to guide them this time. Unlike dawn, midnight felt no different to him than it did to anyone else. Thus: watches. It seemed surreal, even for them, to count down to an occult ritual on a digital watch with Indiglo™.

"Come along, then," Giles said. "It's time."

**The Ritual**

Midnight. The flames rose high into the night, and Buffy summers stepped out into the circle. On her head was a crown of spring flowers. In her right hand was a sword. In her left were the index cards.

Nervously, she cleared her throat several times, and began to read:

"I step into the circle on this holy night,

I step into the circle and I call:"

Oz began to beat on the drum—lightly, with his fingertips, a two-beat-rest rhythm, the rhythm of a heartbeat.

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

"I call forth the Lightning Warrior,

Who holds thunder in his hands

And brings life from the Earth.

Come step into the circle on this holy night

Come step into the circle, I Call."

Riley stepped forward into the circle, holding a gun in one hand and a sickle in the other. Both had caused some controversy: Giles had argued that a sword was more traditional as a ritual weapon, until someone pointed out that the Lightning Warrior needed to "hold thunder in his hand". Riley had argued that he'd never actually _used _a sickle. Not as a farming tool, at least. Giles, still smarting over the gun, pointed out that the sickle would have to do as a symbol, unless he knew where he could get a combine at this hour.

_Thump, thump._

Something was happening. Buffy could feel it. Something strange, but wonderful. Everything was becoming more _real_ somehow. The night was coming alive around her: her soft robe whispered against the bare skin of her arms. The sand shifted under her feet. The wind sighed around the rocks. She could hear the skittering of the night-creatures outside the circle of the firelight, more interested in the warmth than the two-legged intruders who brought it. The moon and stars shone down more clear-bright than she, a city girl, had known they could. Riley had told her, and she'd believed, but she'd never imagined.

_Thump, thump._

As Riley approached her, she could smell him: sweat and wood-dust competed with what she considered to be Riley's "normal" smell, but couldn't overpower it. But there was something else. Something more.

_Thump, Thump._

Something earthy. Something she'd only smelled before when she—and he—were at their wildest. Something musky and essentially _male_.

_Thump, thump._

She could feel the drumbeat entering her blood. Wild, yes. Something wild was happening. She looked into his eyes and she saw it there, too. She looked around at the circle, and she saw it in them, as well. Shuffling impatiently, tapping their feet, keeping time. The men more than the women, Angel and Oz most of all.

_Thump, thump._

She threw the index cards into the fire. She couldn't forget the words any more than she could forget to breathe.

--

Giles watched in awe as Riley dropped to one knee in front of Buffy, bowing his head. He thought, but couldn't be sure, that he heard the younger man murmur "My queen."

Buffy stepped forward and raised her sword, and Giles—wondering just how closely this ritual would mirror the ancient druidic ceremonies—had a moment of fright, but then Buffy touched the tip of the sword lightly to each of Riley's shoulders—

_She's knighting him?_

--then reached down, pulled him to his feet, kissed him, and released him in the direction of his assigned place in the circle.

Now he understood. The prophecy, despite its helpfulness on where and when to go and what to bring, and what to do with them, had been remarkably close-mouthed on the "stage directions" of the ritual itself. It had only said "Fear not for what you shall say and do, for the words shall be as the very air you breathe, and your feet shall know the steps in the sand."

He watched, and he understood. And he believed.

And as he believed, he could feel the dance starting to grow in his own feet.

--

"I call forth the Guardian of the Night,

The Righteous Beast with a soul where there should be none,

Who watches over the helpless in the dark."

As she repeated the refrain, Angel stepped forward, carrying his broadsword and wearing a hooded black cloak over his robe. Like Riley, he dropped to one knee in front of Buffy, and like Riley he was knighted, kissed, and sent on his way. There was one difference: his face was human when she touched her sword to his right shoulder, but when she touched the left, he snarled forth his demon-face. The Guardian of the Night was not a man—not _just_ a man, anyway. He was the Righteous Beast. So let it be.

--

"I call forth the Walker of the Twilight,

She who has gone into the Darkness,

Yet returned as a brighter light."

Faith stepped forward. Instead of kneeling, she held out her sword in a gesture that was half salute and half challenge. Buffy crossed the sword with her own, then reached out her free hand. Faith clasped it and they pulled each other close with the swords still crossed between them. They kissed over the crossed swords, then Buffy turned Faith in the direction of her place and let her go.

--

Buffy stuck her sword into the earth and left it standing. None of the rest of them would be knighted. All of them received a kiss as a benediction—generally on the cheek or forehead, though she did kiss Willow and Cordelia's lips—but none of them with the passion that she had shown Riley and Angel.

"I call forth the three who are as one:

The Witch of the Glass Pathways,

The Silent One,

And the Gentle One."

_Thump, thump. Thump, Thump._

"I call forth the Magician,

the wise counselor

who knows the price of folly."

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

"I call forth the Guide, she who sees the gods' light."

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

"I call forth the Young King,

War-chieftain of the lost."

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

"I call forth the Coyote,

Who cures and kills with laughter."

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

"I call forth the Punisher."

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

"I call forth the Scholar."

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

That left only her mother outside the circle. Buffy, who had guided everyone to their places, had returned to her own in the center, standing before the fire. And there was only one gap left in that circle, one that made a straight corridor between Buffy and her mother.

Silence fell. Oz stopped beating the drum. The others, who hadn't even realized that they were clapping and stomping in time, all but dancing in their places, went still.

"And I call forth the Mother of the Heroes,

Dam to one, mother to all,

Nurturer of bodies and healer of spirits,

More mother to them than their own dams is she."

The Heroes didn't bother to hold back their whoops and cheers as a teary-eyed Joyce joined the circle, greeted by a rib-cracking hug from her daughter.

--

Buffy took her spot on the outer edge of the circle—between an honor guard of the Lightning Warrior and the Guardian of the Night. It was the Magician and the Scholar's turn to talk.

From where they stood in the circle, directly opposite each other, Giles and Wesley stepped forward. Giles held a great oaken staff—again, taken from his own store's stock room—while Wesley carried a simple quill pen. Both the Magician and the Scholar required a book as part of their ritual props. The Prophecies themselves served nicely.

"We have come together on this holy night," Giles pronounced. "The night of the Sun's ascendancy, the night that He Who Has Died and Risen comes to his bride, the night that their passion brings the new bloom of life."

"All who have been called are here," Wesley declared. "And we are two sevens. All conditions are met: we have given gifts of rare oils—" The rare oils had been used in lieu of kerosene to get the fire going. They had done that job so well, that the more common oils they'd brought "just in case" had proven unnecessary. "Let the priestesses bring forth the other gifts."

Willow stepped forward first, holding the incense that the ritual had called for. "We offer sweet incense," she said as she tossed it into the fire. "May its smoke rise to the gods' nostrils and be pleasing."

Tara followed behind, holding the herbs. "We offer these herbs, food and medicine to us, gifts of the Earth, wife and mother to the God."

As the shower of sparks that had once been a handful of leaves and powders rose toward the sky, Willow and Tara turned to Giles and Wesley, and Oz began to beat on the drum again.

"Dance!" Giles shouted suddenly, turning out to the circle. "Let this holy place, this holy night, and our joy bless each other!"

The people in the outer circle were startled, so startled that it was a moment before they realized that their feet were already moving, that the tambourine was already in Cordelia's hands.

Giles turned back to the inner circle, and his eyes were Somewhere Else. "Before you we come," He chanted. "With dance and with drum, we come."

"We pray you find it pleasing, and we beseech you: come among us," Wesley said.

The inner circle felt their own feet begin to move.

Willow felt the words shaping her lips around themselves, rather than the other way around. These words had been written in her brain from the moment she'd been born, as much a part of her as the language centers that had held them, waiting for this moment to be spoken: "We call to you: Stag King," she cried into the night.

"Oak King," Tara added.

"Lord of the Hunt,"

"Lord of the Dance,"

"He Who Dies and Rises Again"

By now the outer circle was spinning around at a dizzying pace, dancing counterclockwise—widdershins—though only Angel knew why. The inner circle was turning in the opposite direction, not so fast but speeding up until

"Look!"

Both circles stopped dancing as everyone stopped to see where Cordelia was pointing. For a long moment, there was nothing but the desert night beyond the large gap in the rocks that she was pointing at, but just before some asked what she'd seen, something stepped through.

Compared to many of the things they'd seen, the new arrival was actually rather mundane. He had a magnificent rack of antlers and gleaming black hooves instead of feet, but other than that, he was just a man. A beautiful, muscular man with dark skin, dark eyes, a ruggedly handsome face, and gleaming black hair that reached his shoulders. But still just a man.

Or rather, he would have been, if he hadn't also been twenty feet tall.

He entered the circle with a slow, stately dignity that made it seem as if he was wearing the richest of royal robes and carrying tokens of office, despite the fact that he was actually naked. Grass and flowers sprung up in each hoof print he left behind.

"I assume this is the Horned One?" Oz asked dryly as Willow and Tara's retreat brought them next to him once more.

"Cernunnos," Tara breathed.

"Is that good?" He asked, never taking his eyes off the huge figure approaching the fire.

"He's God embodied as the sacred masculine," Giles pronounced in awe. Like anyone, he returned to his native tongue—scholar-speak—in moments of great excitement.

Under any other circumstances, Oz might have quirked an eyebrow and said "Huh." He was pretty sure he understood, but still…

"He's the God," Willow said, answering as if Giles hadn't. "He's the King of Witches, he's everything…everything _male_. He's in the storm, and the fire, and—"

"Enough," He said gravely. His voice was deep, rich, and resonant. "You have called me, and I have come, as the prophecies foretold." The Scooby Gang and Angel investigations had encountered several beings of cosmic power and importance in the past several weeks, but only Cordelia had experienced something holy. The feeling of awe, of power, of _majesty_, was overwhelming. Some part of them, some deep-buried spirit-instinct, made them want to drop to their knees. "I have come to—"

Faith screamed.

The atmosphere shattered like fine crystal and they all whipped toward the younger Slayer. She'd dropped her sword to the ground and she was covering her face with her arms, and she was _screaming_.

"Faith?" Joyce asked. "What is it, honey? What's wrong?" Later, she would remember that that was the first time she'd called Faith "honey". As if she was her daughter.

"Babe?" Gunn asked, tentatively putting an arm around her. "You okay?"

"Get _away_ from me!" She screamed, throwing his arms off. "Don't touch me!" She backed away from the circle, looking around wildly, everywhere but at Cernunnos. "Don't _look _at me! Don't…I'm…" She spun on her heel and sprinted up the trail.

"Oh, bugger," Cernunnos swore, something that would have drawn incredulous stares if the mortals hadn't been more worried about Faith. "Faith, wait!" He called, reaching out after her fleeing back. "You can't—"

She hit something solid but invisible just as she was about to cross the ridge out of the circle. She bounced and tumbled all the way back down the trail.

"—Get out once the ritual has begun," he finished.

The Heroes crowded around Faith's fallen form, with Giles, Joyce, and Gunn crowded closest.

"Faith? Are you all right?"

"You're not hurt, are you? Anything broken? Twist anything?"

"Don't look at me," Faith moaned, curling up into a fetal ball. "Don't see me. I'm bad. I'm _bad_."

"She'll be okay," Cernunnos said. His voice was still deep and resonant, but he'd shed the formal language. Somehow, it seemed to fit better. "None of you can be hurt as long as I'm here. Don't worry, this is just something that happens to people who enter Divine Presence with a guilty conscience."

Most of the people gathered around Faith took some reassurance from that. Cordelia, however, had a different reaction.

Cordelia got mad.

She'd never had a little sister, but she had some vague idea that this was how it felt to see your little sister get picked on. Faith had done some terrible things, but she was still a Warrior, a Champion—hell with that, she was till a _human being_, damn it, and to see him reducing her to _this…_

She whipped around and stormed across the circle to where the god was still standing. "Okay?" She shouted. "In what sick and twisted alternate universe is _that_—" She pointed to where Faith still lay on the ground, though the people gathered around her were now staring in horror and disbelief at Cordelia. "Even a fucked-up version of okay?" She demanded.

Cernunnos squatted in front of her, getting as close to looking her in the eye as he could. She still had to look up. "And what would you have me do?" He asked.

"What would I--? What--?" She spluttered. "Help her! I talked to the Metatron. I know you have a miracle left in your clip, so use it to help her. After how many times we've saved your world in just the past few weeks, I think you owe us that much."

White-faced and terrified, Willow grabbed her by the shoulder and started to pull her away, while Angel stepped between the Horned One and the May Queen and, his hands clasped in a prayerful manner, began to bow. "Please forgive her, my lord," he said. "She's…very young, and doesn't know—"

"I know enough," Cordelia said, pulling her shoulder away from Willow. "I know he can kill me just by wanting me dead, then send me to some Hell or make me something icky for my next hundred lives. I know that. And believe me, I'm just about scared enough to turn this robe brown."

Angel took a deep, unnecessary breath, unclasped his hands, and stood straight.

"But I'm not going to just stand around while he does _that—_" She pointed across the dell to where the rest of the group had stood up and spread out. All of them were pale and frightened. But they were also straight-standing and determined. Giles stood directly in front of the place where Joyce and Gunn were tending to Faith, shielding it. "—to Faith! Any kind of god that would just walk on by and let that happen belongs on the other side of the battle lines."

Cernunnos slowly rose back to his full height. Even Cordelia couldn't help but take a step back as he did so. But after that first step, all of them stood their ground. Why not? Even if they could leave the dell, where could they run to?

So they stood their ground and waited for the lightning.

Cernunnos simply stood, staring down at them for what seemed like forever, his expression unreadable.

Then he put his hands on his hips.

Threw back his head.

And laughed.

The laughter was deep and rich and it rolled across the desert like rain clouds. Sick animals who heard that laugh immediately either died or became well. Cacti burst into full, glorious rainy-season bloom while an ancient saguaro crashed to the ground and began to rot. A kangaroo rat lay down and gave birth to her litter. Not far away, a rattlesnake did the same thing.

"Brilliant!" He said. "Well said! And to think that you, of all people, were the one to figure it out."

The Gang relaxed with an audible sigh of relief. They apparently weren't going to get vaporized right away.

"What? Figure out? What did I figure out?" Cordelia asked, completely perplexed.

"What it's really all about," Cernunnos replied. "You're not Our slaves. You're not here to kiss Our asses." He paused a moment. "We would've made your lips a lot bigger if you were," he muttered before going on. "You're Our children. You're here to grow up, and we're here to help you. And guess what? You just stood up to me, demanding what you knew was right rather than stroking my ego. And more importantly, in your case, you were standing up for _someone else_." He reached down with a hand nearly the size of her torso and patted her on the head. "Very good. You're learning."

"Uh…thanks."

He stood up straight again and cracked his knuckles. "So! Right. It just so happens that I came here tonight to perform that one miracle that Cordelia is talking about. Next question is: are you sure this is what you want me to do?"

Cernunnos' simple, straightforward, workman-like language was more than a little confusing to those in the group who, accustomed to dealing with supernatural beings who had more to prove, expected more formality. So it was that Giles and Wesley were still dumbfounded and stammering when Buffy spoke up:

"What do you mean? Of course we want you to help her. Why would we want anything else?"

"Because I can do _anything_," Cernunnos explained. "I'm—" and then he spoke a word similar to the word Cordelia had heard the Metatron speak. Obviously the same language. It was a strange singular-plural word that their minds couldn't quite grasp. Each of them knew that, even though they were _hearing_ "a god" or "the God" or "God", that the true meaning of the word was outside their reach. "Life and death are my particular specialty. I am the dying and the rising god, after all."

They all stood dumbfounded, utterly stunned at the enormity of what they were being offered.

"Anything," Cernunnos prompted them after they stood in silence for a few moments. "Anything at all." He paused. "Well, not _anything_. I'm not going to change the nature of the world for you. No world peace, no end to hunger or disease, no getting rid of all the demons. That's up to _you_. But on a more personal level…Rupert," he pointed. Giles jumped, and put his hand on his chest in a 'Who, me?' gesture. "I could give you Jenny back."

Giles stumbled back another step, his hand clutching his heart.

"Cordelia," Cernunnos turned his huge, glistening black eyes on the defiant seer. "Don't you miss Doyle? And wouldn't you be just as glad if he would take his visions back?"

Like Giles, Cordelia stumbled a few steps away, as if she'd been struck.

"Willow? Xander? Don't you think that Jesse deserves the same chance at a life that you've had? Alonna doesn't need to stay dead, Gunn."

The final person he turned his gaze on was Angel. "I could give you life," he said. "Real life. Eating food, raising children, walking in the sun. You could even keep your strength. Easiest thing in the world."

They all stood in silence for a moment longer, trying to process it, but it was too big. Everything they'd ever hoped for, everything they'd ever dreamed of but written off as impossible, was there for the asking. One miracle, for services rendered, theirs free and clear. One miracle, and only one.

Angel was the first to speak up. "I couldn't do that," He said. "I couldn't live with myself, knowing that I'd bought my life with someone else's. So…thank you. Thank you very, very much, but…let someone else have it."

"The same goes for me," Giles spoke up almost immediately. "I'm quite sure that Jenny is happy where she is—yes?" He asked anxiously.

Cernunnos nodded. "Oh, yes." He said. "Everyone I mentioned is in one of the Shining Realms. They'd have to be, or else they wouldn't be mine to offer. I'd have to fight the Lower Beings for them."

"Then it would be very selfish of me to ask you to drag her out of there for me. Besides, in the years she's been gone, my own life has…" He involuntarily glanced toward Joyce. "Moved forward. Perhaps it is better for us both the way things are."

"I can take the headaches," Cordelia said. "The world's full of aspirin. Help Faith."

Willow and Xander looked at each other, then back at Cernunnos. "Help Faith."

The others had only themselves, and the offers made to them to think about. No need to check with anyone before answering: "Help Faith." "Help Faith." "Help Faith."

Faith was sitting up, cradled in Gunn's arms, listening. Her tears and her protests were starting to take on an entirely different tone: "No…guys, please…you can't. Not for me…"

"They already have, sweetheart," Cernunnos said. He crossed the circle, and although he did so in only a few strides, and he certainly didn't seem to shrink in any way as he did so, he was only slightly taller than Riley by the time he reached her. A tall man, nothing more.

With hooves. And antlers.

He reached down and took Faith by the hand, and hauled her to her feet. "Come on, lass, up on your feet. I want you looking at my eyes, not my hooves. Always stand on your feet and look in the eyes when you're in the presence of a god, it's what we made 'em for. It's mortal rulers that need their egos boosted by all that groveling."

All but struck speechless, Faith took a moment to collect herself. But as she did so, she did as she was told. And she found that the eyes of Cernunnos were…familiar. They were like Angel's or Gunn's—or rather, Gunn's and Angel's were like his—kind eyes. Gentle eyes. Eyes that loved her, but asked more than a quick fuck or an ego boost. Eyes that asked more than she thought she could give.

"So," Cernunnos said. "The people have spoken: they want me to help you. How may I do that?"

She couldn't believe this. They'd all…they'd given up a _miracle_. For her. She'd never met people like this. Ever. If you'd told her, once upon a time, that they existed, she would have called you a liar, or them fools.

She would try to be worthy of that. Try to be worthy of that miracle.

She could wish her whole betrayal undone, but that might disrupt their defeat of the Mayor. She could…

No. She knew what she needed to do.

"Can you bring Lester back?" She asked.

"Of course I can," Cernunnos replied. "But are you sure that's what _he_ wants? It'd be awful selfish of you to pull him out of Heaven just to salve your guilty conscience, don't you think?"

She hadn't thought of it that way. "Probably," she admitted. She started to run her fingers through her hair, then clenched her fists in it instead. "I can't even pick the right miracle," she said, her voice quavering on the edge of tears. "Give it to someone else before I fuck it up."

She'd started to curl in on herself, but then there was a rough, callused hand was under her chin, raising her eyes again until they met Cernunnos's.

"I said to look me in the eye," he said sternly. "It's the responsibility of everything with a soul to look the gods in the eye." Then his face softened. "Come on, now, it needn't be so bad. Let's ask Lester what he thinks."

With that, her eyes flew wide. "What?"

"Hoy! Lester!" Cernunnos called. "There's someone here who wants to talk to you."

The Heroes could only stare, dumbfounded as a figure appeared in the middle of their Beltane fire, seeming to simply coalesce out of the shimmering heat-haze. At first, standing in the middle of the fire, the figure was a mere silhouette, but as it stepped down to the desert floor, it resolved into a young man. He was short, perhaps no more than Faith's own height, with round cheeks, thin red-brown hair, and a bit of a potbelly. He wore a tweed suit and brown shoes. He was the movie stereotype of the shy research scientist, who never even approaches The Girl and who only speaks out with confidence—or at all—on his subject of expertise, but never stops speaking once he starts.

"Yes, sir?" The new arrival asked.

"Lester!" Cernunnos greeted him, half-turning and waving him on, pulling Faith forward at the same time. "Lester, this is Faith. I believe you've met."

Lester leaned forward, squinting his eyes and raising his hand to adjust glasses that were no longer present or necessary. He peered at Faith, who was standing pale and still, for a long moment, then nodded his head. "Yes, I believe we have," He agreed.

"Oh, good," Cernunnos said, his sunny grin revealing canine teeth longer and sharper than the human norm. "You'll have plenty to talk about, then." With that, he stepped back, leaving the field empty between the Slayer and the spirit.

The rest of the Heroes stood in silence. For the two participants in the moment, the rest of the world went away.

Faith swallowed hard and looked at the face of the man she'd murdered. He was younger, and his glasses were gone—who needs glasses in Heaven?—but otherwise, he looked pretty much the same. He said nothing, simply watching her gravely.

She tried to speak, but her mouth and throat were too dry. All she could manage was a rusty whisper. She swallowed hard, licked her lips, and tried again. "Lester? That really you?"

He nodded. "It is. Or at least, it was."

She swallowed again, but this time there was a hard, aching lump in her throat. "I. Am so. Sorry," she said. "So, so sorry. I don't know what else to say, but—if it makes you feel any better, I went to jail," she said desperately. "I spend my days working in the laundry, fighting off 300-pound butches and getting beat up by the guards when I hurt 'em too bad. I wanted to stay, to pay my dues, but—"

She noticed that Lester was simply standing and letting her talk, looking entirely unmoved. "Do you want it back?" She asked, breaking off in the middle of her other topic, even more desperate. "Your life? He'll give it back if I ask him to," she waved at Cernunnos, who was leaning against a large boulder with his arms crossed. Moss was spreading across the boulder at a visible pace. "If you want it."

"No, thank you." Lester said. "It's been two years. Life has moved on without me. I'm better off where I am."

"Then is there anything _else_ I can do?" She pleaded. "Anything at all. Please. Please let me—"

"What can you do?" He shrugged. "I'm dead. You killed me. I was about to achieve international acclaim because of your 'Olvikan'. It was the culmination of my life's work. Imagine it: me, discoverer of an entirely new _type_ of dinosaur. A limbless carnosaur. Perhaps a giant, ancestral snake. An entirely new branch on the evolutionary tree. That's more than I ever dared to _dream_ of achieving, back when I first studied archaeology. That's what you took away from me."

Faith bowed her head and swallowed hard. Her eyes were starting to sting, but she refused to cry. She had no right to cry, not in front of the man she'd murdered.

"Do you remember what I asked you?" He asked. "Before you started stabbing?"

"Why," she answered in a strengthless whisper.

"What was that?" He asked, cupping a hand to his ear.

"Why," she answered more strongly, raising her head again. "You asked me why."

"That's right," he said. "And you didn't know. You didn't even know _why_ you were killing me. I didn't know why I was dying, and that, as they say, was the unkindest cut of all."

Faith took a deep breath, raised her head a little higher, and looked straight into Lester's eyes. _It's the responsibility of everything with a soul…_

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I know it doesn't mean shit, but it's all I can say. I'm sorry."

Lester stood silent for a moment, his eyes searching her face. Evaluating. Re-assessing. "I found out why once I crossed the veil," he said at last. "They stop hiding things from you after you die. I learned that I had a tiny, sacrificial part in saving the world. If it hadn't been you, it would have been somebody else."

"That doesn't make it okay that _I_ did it," She said.

"No," he agreed sharply. "It doesn't. But still. It was fated to happen. As unfair as it was, it was necessary." He paused thoughtfully for a moment. "To tell the truth, that provided a bit of comfort."

He paused again, stroking his chin, clearly still evaluating her, trying to decide what to say. For the first time, she noticed that he was changing: he was growing slowly taller and straighter, his belly was flattening and his shoulders widening. "I found out why it was done," He said. "And I found out why you were the one to do it. So much of you, nature _and_ nurture, was violence. I saw your pain, and your loneliness. The love and attention lavished on you by the only real father you'd ever known until you loved him, too. Until you didn't care that he was evil and you'd do anything for him. I saw what had happened to you, and I saw what became of you, and I found…I found that I couldn't hate you."

Faith could only blink and stare in confusion and disbelief. "What are you saying?" She asked. "You saying it's _okay_?"

"No," He said sternly. "It's not okay. It's never okay. Nothing can _make _it okay, not even the fact that I'm happy where I am now. Someone with your kind of power needs to understand that."

"I do," She answered miserably. "And I'm just sorry—"

"That's why I put you through all this, even though I don't hold you any grudge anymore."

Faith was utterly lost. "But…you just said…"

"I'm not saying it's okay," He said. "You _need_ to understand that, and remember it. What I'm saying is that I forgive you. Do you understand the distinction?"

Faith could only nod mutely. Her voice was gone. The tears had finally come, but for a different reason. She couldn't remember any time in her life—ever—when she'd been this happy. Of all the joys in all the worlds, forgiveness is perhaps the greatest of all.

Lester was looking more angelic than human now. His suit had turned a soft white and started to glow, while he stood straight and tall and broad-shouldered and muscular.

"A few weeks back, you _died_," he continued. "And you came back. That means you have a new life. You're starting clean. Don't make the same mistakes with this one."

"I won't," she promised fervently. "I'll remember you."

"Good." With that, he took her head in his hands, bent his own head and kissed her forehead. "Go forth and sin no more," he murmured. Then he released her, walked back into the fire, and was gone, as if the fire was a doorway he had walked through. And perhaps that was the case.

The silence held for a moment. Then it was broken by a strange sound. The Heroes all transferred their attention from the fire to Faith, who was standing with tears streaming down her face, making tiny half-laugh, half-sob sounds of pure joy. Then the sounds grew and swelled and the sobs faded until she burst into full, joyous laughter and everyone present realized at the same time that this was the first time they'd ever really heard her laugh.

But now she was. She stood there, her arms and her face raised, laughing ecstatic joy and gratitude to the sky, as if Lester was listening from beyond it.

They all converged on her, and there were hugs and congratulations and—

"Ahem."

If it had been anyone else, they probably wouldn't have noticed. But when a god wants your attention…

"I hate to break this up," Cernunnos said as they all turned to him. "I really do. But we're burning moonlight, and there's a lot of work to do yet. I came here to do a miracle, and that's what I intend to do."

"But…" Buffy said. "That just now wasn't a miracle?"

"Pfft," Cernunnos waved the question away. "Summoning a spirit at a mystical nexus point? On _Beltane_? I've done card tricks that were harder. Any one of your magic-users could've done it if they'd thought of it."

Giles, Wesley, Willow, and Tara all looked back and forth at each other, dumbfounded. It was true. It would have been easy for _them_, let alone Him. Why _hadn't_ they thought of it?

Too used to the misery, perhaps. Too accustomed to accepting it.

Cernunnos smacked his hands together and began rubbing them, like a man eager to get to work. "Oh, no. I have some Wonders To Perform tonight, children."

"You already know what you're going to do," Buffy said. "You always did."

"Of course," Cernunnos said.

"Then why?" She asked. "Why the questions? Why let us think that was our only chance?"

"You needed to be clear on what you really wanted," He replied. "I offered you all things that you wanted with all your hearts at one time or another, but instead you chose to help a member of your family. Which is just what needed to happen. You see, I'm not some genie, who_ has_ to give you your wish, trying to get out of it for as little as I possibly can. I'm not a fairy-friggin'-godmother, and I'm not some tempter devil trying to screw you over. I'm a god. That means I want to do what's really best for you. But I didn't want you to go away from here feeling cheated. I wanted you to make those decisions yourselves."

"So what _are_ you going to do?" She asked.

"Just what I said I was going to do in the book," he answered. "I'm going to help you defeat the one enemy that you never could."


	3. The Miracle

Cernunnos returned to the center of the circle with the Scooby Gang and Angel Investigations following after, curious and confused.

The grass and flowers had spread beyond His hoof prints, until almost the entire floor of the dell—minus the fire pit—was now carpeted with soft green. What was more, the grass was starting to spread up the trail. Moss had completely covered the original rock he had leaned against and spread to others. Out in the darkness, animals hunted, and mated, and fought. All of nature felt the presence of the Stag King.

The Heroes felt it, too. They'd no sooner returned to the circle than their shoes started to feel too tight, too hot. Itchy. They had to take them off.

_Remove your sandals, for the place where you stand is holy ground._

They didn't question whatever deep, still part of themselves had said that. They just obeyed, and then they were barefoot, and they felt the soft grass tickling their feet.

But that wasn't all they felt. As before, the night was alive around them, and they felt…something. They felt what the coyote and the rattlesnake and the rat and the gila monster felt. Something was _waiting_. Something had been suspended, put on hold while Cernunnos had tended to Faith. But it still hung over them, an enormous, irrational power like a dam, cracking and leaking and ready to break. Or a thunderstorm ready to burst, the clouds stacked up high and the air heavy, ready to erupt into electrical fire.

The hairs on their arms stood up in the charged air. Something was waiting. Waiting to happen.

Cernunnos crossed the circle to a boulder, where He sat. "You need to go out into the desert," He said as He settled down. "That's where it's going to happen."

Buffy considered asking if that was necessary, if He couldn't just do it here, then thought better of it.

"Don't worry," Cernunnos said with a wry grin that caused buds to swell on the flowers that were poking up out of the grass. "It won't be for forty days and forty nights. In fact, it shouldn't take long at all. Leave your robes and your weapons. Just the clothes you stand up in."

Willow reached for her shoes as the others were shucking their robes, but found that she couldn't lift them. "Don't worry about your shoes, either," Cernunnos said as she braced her legs and back for a mighty heave.

"But—" Willow started to protest, before remembering who had spoken and cutting herself off.

"Hmm?" Cernunnos prompted, cocking his head at her.

"Scorpions?" She asked sheepishly. "Rattlesnakes?"

"Will give you a wide berth," he assured her. Then he waved them in the direction of the gap in the stones that he had come through. "Now run along."

"Will we be able to get out?" Faith asked. "I don't want to hit the wall again." She rubbed her forehead.

"Of course you will," He replied. "I'm telling you to, aren't I?"

--

The snakes and the scorpions did indeed ignore them, but there were still plenty of rocks, uneven terrain, and plants that seemed downright hostile to make them wish that they still had their shoes.

The cold also came as a surprise to most of them. A desert is a place that lies naked, without the protective blanket of clouds that most places wear. In the day, the unimpeded heat of the sun blazes down. But in the night, all of that heat evaporates directly into outer space.

"Does anyone—ow!—know what we're supposed to be doing out here?" Xander asked as he stubbed his toe for the third time.

"I assume we're going to meet our greatest foe—unless someone else here received instructions I didn't," Wesley said, looking around at his companions. His question was answered with shaking heads and negative grunts.

"Without weapons," Anya added. "Suddenly I'm wishing that I'd taken off last week after all."

"Come on, Anya," Buffy said. "You've just been given an order by a genuine, straight-up _god_. Try to have a _little_ fai-aaaiiith!" She leaped back. If her reflexes had been anything less than supernatural, the sword that suddenly flashed out of the darkness would have taken her head off.

The wielder of the sword emerged from the darkness like some sea monster from the depths.

It was Buffy.

Dressed all in black leather, bedecked with spikes and chains, wielding a sword—but Buffy.

"What—what's this?" Buffy asked. "What's going on? _I'm_ our greatest enemy?"

"Well, you do put them in constant danger," The Dark Buffy answered. "Only God knows how many times you've gotten them hurt or nearly killed. And sooner or later, they're going to figure that out, and they're all going to abandon you—just like everyone always does. _But_—" she continued before anyone could interrupt, as several were opening their mouths to do. "Even you couldn't fuck everything up as badly as it's gotten fucked up over the years."

Other figures started to emerge from the darkness.

Riley, carrying a taser and wearing a black Nazi uniform, stepped out of the dark grinning. "Yeah, but I was just following orders when I fucked up, wasn't I?"

"As was I," Wesley said, emerging from the night wearing a very similar uniform.

One by one, nightmare versions of each of them emerged from unnaturally dark corners of the desert night, corners that the moonlight somehow didn't reach.

A street-hooligan Giles with a Hitler Youth armband, accompanied by Gunn wearing gang colors and a hollow-eyed shadow of Faith with track marks on her arm.

Angelus, complete with his familiar leather pants, wine-colored shirt, and leather jacket.

Joyce, dressed in a June Cleaver outfit and waving a torch.

A slavering, foam-dripping werewolf with matted, mangy, clumped fur.

A cloven-hoofed Tara with gleaming cat's eyes and a forked, flickering tongue by the side of a Willow whose eyes were pure black and whose hands were wrapped in gauntlets of crackling electricity.

Cordelia, dressed in something that had surely come directly from a Paris runway, her eyes like ice, followed by Anyanka, in full demon-face and cracking a scourge.

Finally, a huge knight in spiked black armor, gripping a massive axe.

"Wait a second," Xander—who had been keeping count—exclaimed. "How come _my _guy looks like doomsday walking?"

His question was largely ignored. Everyone else was staring in horror at their own opposite number.

"Doppelgangers," Giles said, mostly to himself. "This must be some sort of test. No one fight your own double!" He called out. "They're a precise match for you."

"How is _that_ a precise match—" Xander began, but once again he was ignored.

"Switch with someone else!" Giles called and, matching deed to word, he stepped out and looped a right hook into the face of the prowling Willow-thing. She did nothing to defend herself, but her head snapped back instantly, grinning and unharmed. At the same time, Willow cried out and fell to the ground. She lay there, stunned and bleeding from her nose, as Oz and Tara hurried to help her.

"How did you do that?" Giles demanded, his face ashen.

"I _didn't_ do that," The Willow-thing said in a slow, teasing voice that reminded them all chillingly of the vampiric Willow that had come through from Anyanka's alternate dimension. "_You_ did."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"You don't get it, do you?" Not-Willow taunted. "We're not just some shape-shifting fakes. We _are _you."

"Imagine waking up in the middle of the night and seeing someone there in your room with you," Not-Buffy said.

"You go to investigate, and you see that it's you!" Not-Joyce said, punctuating "you" with a jab of her torch.

"While you were sleeping, someone came into your room and set up a sheet of black metal," Not-Wesley explained.

"A black mirror," The demonic Tara whispered, her forked tongue teasing at her razored teeth.

"You'd been frightened of nothing more than your own dark reflection," Not-Giles said.

"For this little exercise, we'll have to pretend that you'd reflect in the Black Mirror for some reason," Angelus grinned at Angel.

"But then," Anyanka said, "Your reflection raises its hand and reaches out for you…while your hand stays at your side."

"That's us," Not-Willow finished, smiling maliciously. "We're your Black Mirror. We're you, seen through the glass darkly."

"We're everything you hate about yourself and refuse to admit," Not-Cordelia said.

"We're what tears you down from the inside," Not-Riley added.

"What makes you hurt yourself," the hollow-eyed Not-Faith said, tugging at her stringy hair.

"And those you love," Not-Joyce finished, raising her torch.

"So why does mine look like Arnold Schwarzenegger in a Darth Vader costume?" Xander demanded.

"I hate Angel," The massive, armored figure said, his voice echoing hollowly within his visor. "I hate him more than anyone else in the world. I hate him for being a vampire, I hate him for what Angelus did," Then the Black Knight lifted a gauntleted hand and raised his visor. Xander's young face was behind it, as they'd all known it would be. But now, without the echoing, distorting effect of the visor, the things that Not-Xander was saying were that much more chilling. "And I hate him for stealing Buffy away from me. But most of all, I just hate him. He's like Larry and Percy, only worse. He's every cool guy and pretty boy who ever kept me down and made me a clown. I could have been somebody important in the Scooby Gang, even if I never amounted to anything else. I could have been the hero, gotten the girl, but he had to show up and steal all that away from me. That's why I take every opportunity to make his life more difficult. If Buffy had found out that he'd come to visit while he was still there last thanksgiving, they might have been able to talk it out right away. If Riley had found out about the True Happiness clause while Buffy was there to calm him, they might not have fought when they met. Too bad that didn't get Angel in more trouble…"

Xander's face had gone white. "No," he denied. "That's not true. Those were mistakes. Slips."

"To your conscious mind," Not-Riley said, pointing at the Black Knight. "But he knew what you really wanted."

"It's funny that I go to so much trouble over Buffy, 'cause I hate her, too," Not-Xander continued.

"That's a lie!"

"I hate her for choosing an undead monster over me, and I hate her for failing us so many times. But hey, let's not stop there: the list goes on. I hate Oz for stealing Willow away from me—she was always supposed to be mine, but she chose to go with that murderous animal instead. I hate Cordelia for a lifetime worth of crap, and above all—first and foremost—I hate my father for being a drunken, abusive scumbag and my mother for taking it like the coward she is."

"Shut up!" Xander screamed, launching himself at his dark image.

The Black Knight's visor slammed back into place and he swung his axe. Xander, his sense of self-preservation overriding his fury, leaped back out of range. The Black Knight advanced, his axe held high and ready.

As if that was a signal, the other shades began to advance as well, raising their weapons. Even the Not-Cordelia pulled a stun gun out of her purse.

"But you have to understand, it's not about hate for all of us," Joyce-the-Inquisitor said. "I'm just trying to make it all work. And I will. I'll create a perfect home—" She leveled her torch like a sword. "Even if I have to kill my own wayward daughter to do it."

"For me, it was a question of duty," the Nazi-clad Wesley said.

"Just following orders," Not-Riley chimed in gleefully.

Unarmed, the Scooby Gang backed away, Oz and Tara hauling Willow to her feet and pulling her along with them as they went. Fighting themselves on even terms obviously created a stalemate. But these weren't even terms. Their opponents were fresh, rested, and armed, and they couldn't fight the Dark Reflections without hurting their friends. Even the Warriors couldn't conquer under such circumstances. What kind of test was this? What was it trying to prove? Some, such as Giles, were wishing that Cernunnos had at least given them some clue what they were supposed to accomplish. It might have given them a hint what to do.

Others, such as Anya, were simply considering bolting.

It was only then that they realized that the Reflections, advancing in a semi-circle, were backing them into a rock face.

As the grinning Reflections closed in, the Heroes were herded closer and closer together.

Xander, backing away from his massive double, brushed his elbow against Angel, who was crouched and snarling and retreating from a confident-looking Angelus, who held a glass vial in one hand and a stake in the other.

_I don't blame you for hating me Xander but if you only knew that I actually envy you_

_Envy me for what_

_For being alive for seeing Buffy in the sunlight for not messing up as badly as I have or even as badly as I had by your age_

Snap! One of Not-Xander's armor-straps suddenly split, flapping loose from his shoulder as he advanced, startling Xander and Angel into moving again. They had been standing frozen.

For the second time that night, Xander had an Understanding. Although perhaps it was more of an Insight, or even an Intuition. Regardless, he suddenly knew what they had to do. "Grab hands!" He shouted. "Everybody grab hands! That's how we beat these things!" Hoping it wouldn't be taken the wrong way, he reached out to Angel with one hand, and to Anya with the other.

Each hand grasped was like a tumbler falling into place in a lock, or a switch closing in a circuit. Yes, that was it, a series of switches clicking to ON one after the other, gaps closing—

The power they had felt before was back, that titanic, wild power from the dell, only it was in _them_ now, in _them_, and with each gap that closed, it grew. It hummed through their bodies like high-voltage wires, growing, building like—

Like…

The Dark Reflections had backed them into an outward-facing circle, so all that Cordelia and Wesley had to do was reach out across the gap and—

The circuit closed.

The storm broke. The dam broke. The power erupted at last and—

…like an orgasm. Yes, of course, what else had they expected a miracle from Cernunnos to be like? Peace and quiet white light? That was for other faces of God. His was the power of the Earth, of the flesh, of life and death themselves and it exploded through them hot and wild and rushing, dripping with blood and sweat. Maybe a chord crashed out on a thousand electric harps, or maybe that was just the power bursting in their ears, turning their very bones into tuning forks. Maybe a column of light shot up into the night sky, and maybe that was just the power saturating the veins and fluids in their eyeballs. But there was no question that Angel and Oz suddenly roared out into the desert night, that Anya started screaming in a language that had been dead for a millenium, that Buffy's hips thrust three times so hard that she nearly fell, pulling Faith and Riley with her.

The first surge lasted for a full minute, and during that minute their bodies whipped and lunged and leaped, they screamed and laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. Life pulsed through them and the men grew rock hard and throbbingly erect while the women found themselves saturated-wet and Angel gasped for air as he felt his heart trip hammering in his chest for one brief, wild moment.

Through it all, they never let go.

After that minute, they fell silent, still standing in their circle, still hand-in-hand. In that moment, the miracle they had been promised occurred. In that moment, in the silence after the storm, they became One. Fourteen souls joined. Fourteen hearts laid bare, all of their wounds—the old, aching scars; the fresh, bleeding cuts; and the infected, rotting sores—exposed to each other.

Fourteen of them shared Buffy's losses—her abandonment by her father, by Angel, even by her mother and her friends who had turned away from her when she had failed them. They learned of her fear of losing them again—of losing them to violence, or of being abandoned once and for all.

They shared Cordelia's cold empty life. Spending Christmas with mountains of gifts and Maria, the maid. Ski trips to Aspen that were business trips for Daddy and cocktail parties for Mom. Friends who were not friends, but a snapping, snarling wolfpack of followers who would pull her down at the first sign of weakness. The cruelty she showed to the weak in the name of hiding that weakness in herself.

Willow's lonely helplessness—parents who only noticed her when she didn't meet expectations, the cruelty of the popular girls—a desperate need not to be helpless anymore, a hunger for power, for the ability to shout loud enough to _make_ others listen to her that was already setting her feet on a dark path.

A dark path Giles had walked. Of all the forms of rebellion he could have chosen, he chose the most foolish conceivable: using the knowledge that a Watcher should wield against the darkness to dabble in it instead. His friends had paid the price of his stupidity. But even when he had returned to the fold, determined to accept his destiny and be a good Watcher, he hadn't stopped hurting the people he cared about, because he didn't learn in time when to be a Watcher and when to be a man: Jenny, Buffy…

Joyce's failures: a coldly perfect mother who accepted no imperfection in her sight, who stopped calling after Joyce married an "unworthy" man, who offered no comfort but a cold reminder that divorce was adultery was a sin when the marriage ended. Her good daughter gone delinquent—she would make it work, she _would_…but even when she found out the truth, she kept failing…

As did Wesley. Never good enough, never smart enough—not good enough at school, not good enough on the sports field. A refined brute of a father. The belt and the closet under the stairs. Finally becoming a Watcher—the Watcher of the active Slayer—both of them! A chance to finally prove himself. Determined to do it _right_, to do it by the book, and that led to his greatest failure. His greatest sin and shame.

Riley's shame: his mindless following—had he allowed innocent beings to be tortured? Was he a good Nazi, just following orders? And his failure to lead, that had left so many of his band of brothers rudderless and doomed.

Oz: a life of peace disrupted by the intrusion of the Beast, but his greatest sins were committed as a man: betraying Willow, murdering Veruca.

Gunn's desperate life of violence and need. Never enough food, never quite safe, fighting off both human and inhuman demons. Every member of his posse that he lost was another piece of his heart—and then he had failed Alonna…

Anya: the woman she had once been in a country whose name was forgotten in all but the most thorough of histories. The half-remembered reason she feared rabbits: the beloved pet who was boiled alive by a husband who wanted to hurt her more than a mere beating could. Would Xander betray her or harm her as her husband had? The slowly-growing guilt that was building under her bravado: many of the men she had punished had been deserving, as her husband had been. But how many had been simple fools like Xander? What had become of the women that had been left behind? Gods of field and sea, she'd been a demon. What had she done?

Angel knew what he had done as a demon. And while the guilt was gone, the grief remained. His family, his village, Jenny—the suffering he had caused, even to his friends who had survived. But even more, he regretted the things he had done with his soul in place: how he had hurt Buffy—who he could never be with, never deserve—so. He could never be a good man—he had never been a good man, even when he was alive. He had been a lecher, a thief, and a layabout. A waste of a human being. As much as he wished for it, there was no real redemption for him.

Tara heard the voice of her father in the voice of Liam's—a voice telling her that she was no good, never had been, never could be. That she was evil, a demon. That she was alone, that no one else would take her in. She had no one but her blood kin—who else would ever care for such a monster? It took more than a punch in the nose and a stand in the Magic Shop to change a lifetime.

Faith. Frank. Dark nights full of sweat, the smell of beer, and burning pain. Life on her own, a life of being taken from until she learned to take. The Mayor. Doing terrible things because she would do anything for anyone, if there was such a person, who loved her for her.

And Xander. Shouted taunts and bruising blows. Shoved to the floor, shoved up against the lockers. Mocking laughter, bellows of rage. The smell of beer and whisky and unwashed. Hey loser! You'll never amount to anything, boy, you getting uppity? Think you're better than your old man? The cool kids and his father, twin poles of torment, and his mother failing to protect him from either. Hurt turning to hate, a deep, spreading pool of venomous hate that was poisoning his soul.

Fourteen joined hearts shared, comforted, mourned, apologized, and reassured. Forgivenesses were exchanged, and truths that couldn't be doubted as comforting lies in the soul-to-soul intimacy were told.

Perhaps it all happened in a heartbeat, or perhaps it took a long time and the Dark Reflections simply stood and bore witness. Time is hard to grasp in the desert night. But as it happened, the vial shattered in Angelus's hand, which sizzled as the holy water ran down it. The demonic Tara's cat-slit eyes and forked tongue were replaced by gray-green skin and a face covered with blue spikes. And the Black Knight's armor grew rusty and fell apart around him.

The Heroes' eyes, which had been staring into eternity, returned to the time and place in which they stood. Their hands broke apart, and they turned confident grins on their Reflections.

The Reflections' own confident smiles were replaced by nervous looks, and they started to back away.

They didn't get far.

--

Buffy caught her double by the hair and pulled off her spiked, chained leather jacket, leaving the Not-Buffy standing in a white tank top. She held her wiggling double at arm's length for a moment while she studied the armorlike garment. A snatch of an old Billy Joel song was running through her head: _You will never understand how the Stranger is inspired, but he is not always evil, and he is not always wrong._ Maybe that was her case. Too often, she let her friends and loved ones off the hook while she was still angry with them, or while she still had issues to deal with. It wasn't forgiveness, it was repression, and the difference between the two had left her vulnerable to Belial.

She shoved her double away with a muttered "Run along, kid, you bother me," not even bothering to watch as she fled into the desert. Instead, she pulled on the jacket. "Okay," she said as she felt its strength—that little bit of darkness that she needed, perhaps—settling onto her shoulders. "Time to kick a little more ass."

--

Joyce's double tried to threaten her with the torch as she advanced, but she snatched it and stubbed it out into the ground. Without another word, the Martha Stewart Inquisitor ran off.

--

Anya advanced on her demon-faced double, who backed away but kept her scourge raised and ready. Anya kept advancing and Anyanka kept backing away, and it might have kept going like that for some time, except Anya noticed something at her feet. She paused, bent, and picked it up. Anyanka took one look at the jackrabbit that Anya was stroking in her arms, and fled screaming into the desert. Grinning, Anya set the rabbit back down. "Kill her, Hoppy," she commanded. As if it understood her, the rabbit hopped off into the desert in the direction that Anyanka had taken.

--

"You know," Tara said as she approached her double, who was waving her arms, clawing at the air with her pink-polished nails, and saying "grrr." "You're actually kind of cute. Who wouldn't want you?" With that, she gathered her blue-spiked Shadow into a tight hug. The doppelganger thrashed wildly for a moment, then quieted. After another moment of standing quietly in Tara's arms as the gentle witch rocked her softly, she tentatively returned the hug.

Then she faded away, leaving Tara standing by herself.

--

Sparks leaped from the stun gun as Cordelia approached her shade, and she stopped.

"Stay away from me, you freak," Not-Cordelia commanded.

"Freak?" Cordelia cocked her eyebrow. "Better watch who you're calling names, fashion victim," she countered. "I know your weakness."

"Oh, yeah?" The Ice Queen challenged, waving the sparking stun gun. "What's that, loser?"

Cordelia started to advance again. "No matter what's going on, no matter how important it is…" She suddenly hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat it on the Ice Queen's pure silk, designer-original, one-of-a-kind blouse.

The Ice Queen stared at her in refined shock and horror.

"…you can't stop worrying about your damn clothes."

"Ewww!" Not-Cordelia squealed, dropping her stun gun in the sand and waving her hands at her blouse, not quite daring to touch the yellowish goo that was oozing down it. Still squealing and waving, she turned and ran.

"Gross," Buffy commented, stepping up to Cordelia's side. "But effective."

Cordelia shrugged as she turned to her new friend. "She's a from-Hell version of me from back before I got used to being covered in demon slime every night. Of _course_ I knew her weak point."

"Good distance on that loogie, by the way," Buffy complimented. "Where did you learn to spit like that?"

"Gunn and his boys," Cordelia answered. "If you can stand the grossness, it's interesting what you can pick up from guys who aren't trying to impress you."

--

Commandant Riley raised his taser, pointing dead-center at the original Riley's chest.

"Holster that weapon, soldier," Riley barked.

Nazi Riley obeyed immediately.

"Atten-tion!"

The Reflection snapped to attention, its heels clicking.

"About face!" Not-Riley immediately obeyed, swiveling on his heel until he faced out into the desert.

"March!"

And he did, goose-stepping away into the darkness.

--

Willow started toward her Reflection, as the others had, then stopped. Her Reflection, unlike the others, was grinning and stepping up to meet her. After a moment's thought, Willow simply turned away and went to join Tara, leaving Not-Willow staring after her in shock. Not-Willow shook a fist at her and shrieked something soundless, then gave a few steps' worth of chase before fading away.

--

Giles snatched the Nazi armband from the image of his younger self, then punched him in the face, sending him to the sand with a bloody nose. "Run along, boy," he warned as he tore up the armband. "Or I might decide I'm not finished with you."

"Same goes to you, street trash," Gunn said to his doppelganger. "I didn't become you, and I'm not going to. That's because you're a loser with no future but a bullet in your head. Now get the hell out of here before I whup your ass."

Both street punk Reflections obeyed, without a word. Not-Gunn helped Not-Giles to his feet, and both fled out into the reaches of the night.

Faith, carrying her double by the scruff of the neck and the waistband of her pants, shoved her way between the ex-Watcher and the new boyfriend and hurled her doppelganger out into the reaches of the night after theirs.

--

Oz's mangy doppelganger snarled and bristled as Oz advanced, but needed only one sharp-toothed snarl from Oz to send it yipping into the night.

--

Unlike most of the others, Wesley's Gestapo doppelganger was advancing on him with a truncheon raised and a manic "let's dance" grin on his face.

But like Cordelia, Wesley knew exactly what his opponent's weak point was.

He unbuckled his belt, pulled it off, looped it, then gave it a quick tug to crack it against itself.

Not-Wesley's grin was replaced by wide-eyed terror.

"I've outgrown my fear of this," Wesley said, holding up the looped belt. "Have you?"

It would seem not. Not-Wesley threw down his weapon and fled.

--

Angelus scuttled backward, frantically waving his stake and refusing to turn his back as he fled the advancing Angel.

Angel didn't even bother to speed his walk. After more than 250 years of fighting, he knew someone who was already beaten when he saw one.

Before long, the inevitable happened, and Angelus tripped and fell to the ground. Angel paused for a moment, looming over his fallen opponent, who could only lay there, helplessly waving his stake as Angel prepared to pounce.

Then he saw something that froze him where he was.

Angelus was aging. The silver was eating the last of the black in his hair, and a spiderweb of wrinkles was spreading across his face. He was late middle-aged, trying for old.

After a moment, Angel relaxed. "I understand now," He said. "I don't have to fight you again. I've already beaten you."

Angelus, now at least an octogenarian, dropped his stake and began reaching out and clutching toward Angel. "Please…" He wheezed. "Please…"

Angel shook his head. "All this time…and you just…don't matter anymore." With that, he turned on his heel and returned to the group, leaving Angelus to clutch and gasp after him, until he slowly crumbled to ash.

--

Dark Xander, who was now dressed in a garish, mismatched costume from Xander's high school days, was backing away frantically, holding up the still-shiny axe in a warding gesture, rather than a threat. Contemptuously, Xander snatched the weapon from his hands and slapped him in the face. Not-Xander's feet tangled and he fell to the ground, where he glared up with unconcealed hatred.

For a moment, Xander stood quietly, staring contemplatively at the axe.

"Xander?" Willow said. "What are you—"

With a single sudden, unstoppably swift move, Xander swung the axe up over his head and brought it down with brutal force, cleaving his double's skull.

Shocked, the Heroes could only stand and stare as the body of Xander's Shadow twitched and jittered out its last blind, idiot nerve impulses, then settle into the stillness of death.

"He was part of me," Xander said as he watched his Reflection slowly dissolve into the ground. "Like a limb with gangrene. He had to come off." He numbly tossed the axe to the ground that his doppelganger had dissolved into. "Maybe you all could accept them, or take something you need from them, or just reject them, but me…the fucker had to die."

Angel was the first to break out of his stunned paralysis. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Xander's shoulder. "Sometimes that's just what you have to do," he said. "Believe me, I know that better than just about anyone else."

"Yeah, I guess you would."

"Funny thing, Deadboy," Xander continued after a moment's contemplation. "It wasn't watching something with _your_ face die that finally did it for me after all."

--

When they returned to the dell, they found Cernunnos laying on his back, watching the stars. He had returned to his former huge size, and the vegetation had grown lush and thick. Carpets of flowers—some as familiar as dandelions, some new to the planet—filled the dell, and their bare feet disappeared into the grass as they entered the circle.

"It was what you needed," he said before anyone could ask, not looking away from the sky. "I know it was hard on you, and I'm sorry about that. But sometimes even miracles come hard. In fact, the greatest miracles are always bought with blood, sweat, and tears." He turned his head toward them. "Isn't that right, Joyce?"

An interesting fact about talking to divinities that few humans have had the opportunity to find out: if they want you to understand, you do. The understanding may fry your mind, but you understand. What's more, that understanding has a force of its own. So it was that Joyce couldn't stop herself from unconsciously touching her abdomen and glancing at Buffy before softly answering "Yes."

Cernunnos fell silent for a moment as he examined them. Xander and Anya were the only couple holding each other, or otherwise demonstrating warmth or intimacy. Faith and Gunn were holding hands, as were Oz, Willow, and Tara, but their grips were loose and tentative. Buffy, Riley, and Angel weren't touching each other at all. Nor were Giles and Joyce. They were standing close to each other, casting glances that were carefully timed to avoid eye contact; some were even unconsciously reaching toward each other; but they didn't dare to move.

Cernunnos sighed, and all the dandelions turned to fluff and blew away. "Even with your hearts healed, you're still not sure of yourselves," He said. He sat up, shaking his head. "Mortals. Always making everything so difficult." He climbed to his feet, still muttering. "I suppose you had more important things to worry about when you were all soul-joined than making love connections, but still…"

"What do you mean?" Buffy asked. She'd disappointed Him somehow, and that was an awful feeling. "What did we miss?"

"The job's not done," Cernunnos replied. "The healing isn't finished yet."

"You mean there's more?" Joyce asked plaintively. The last miracle had been hard enough.

"Look," Cernunnos said as he sat down between two stones that, strangely enough, formed the armrests of a throne whose back was the slope of the ridge. "I can do this for you, but I'll still need your help. Are you with me?"

That brought a chorus of eager affirmatives.

"All right, then. Worship me."


	4. The Fires of Beltane

**This chapter is the reason this story has an "M" rating. To put it simply: Caution – Whole Bunch'a Sex Ahead. Happy, loving (or at least affectionate), enthusiastically consensual, plot-advancing sex, but also very graphic and in some cases slightly kinky sex. My old archive welcomed that sort of thing, but I'm never sure of Fanfiction Net's limits. Please read no further if you think you'll be offended.**

The Dance

The Scooby Gang and Angel Investigations looked back and forth between each other and the massive, enthroned figure of Cernunnos.

"Worship." Cordelia said.

"Um. Yeah. Worship." Anya agreed.

"Yes, worship." Cernunnos said. "I'm a god. This is _my_ day. I've just performed a _miracle_ for you. I think it's appropriate."

Willow, Tara, Giles, and Wesley looked back and forth at each other with nervous expressions on their faces. Angel had a similar expression, but he didn't share it around with anyone.

"Of course," Buffy said, starting to dip to one knee. Oz caught her under her arms and hauled her back to her feet before she could reach the ground.

"Oz!" She hissed, turning on him. "What are you—" She stopped short when she realized that his eyes were glowing a soft blue.

"Ah, ah, ah," He scolded in a resonant voice, shaking a finger at her. "You know better than that. No groveling."

"Then what do you _want_ us to do?" Buffy asked, frustrated. The thing was that she _wanted_ to worship him, a first for someone as irreligious as herself. Compared to the glorious light and music of Belial, or even the world-ripping abomination of Angelus, he was almost mundane. He was just a twenty-foot tall naked guy with antlers.

But in his presence, there was a sense of awe and majesty that neither of the other two had even come close to.

But even more than the power, she felt love. As much as Belial had hated her—and more—this being loved her. She knew that somehow, in her heart. More than her mother, more than Giles, more than Riley or even Angel.

She wanted nothing more than to fall on her knees, kiss his hooves, and repeat "Thank you" and "I love you" in an endless, senseless stream.

But that wasn't what he wanted. So what did that leave?

Cernunnos shook his head. It could have been in response to the question that she had spoken aloud, but she had little doubt that he had also heard every thought she'd just had. "Mortals. Is that really the only way you can think of to do this? Well, it really is a necessary part of the process. You'll see why. Here, let me help you get started."

Suddenly, Riley went ramrod straight and his eyes flared with blue light, just like Oz's.

On Buffy's other side, Angel straightened as well, and his eyes flared gold.

"What are you doing?" Buffy asked, her questions forgotten as she looked around the circle. The other women followed her lead, and saw that all of the men were like Riley, Angel, and Oz: standing straight, their eyes aglow.

"Don't worry," Cernunnos said softly. "All of your questions will be answered. That's what all this is for, after all."

"Are you _possessing _them?" She asked, horrified. She'd been body-switched and diabolically influenced, and some of her friends had been possessed. Each instance had left her feeling sick. Violated. If Cernunnos could so casually commit mass soul-rape…

"Yes, if that's the only word you have for it," Gunn said.

"But possession isn't really that accurate," Wesley added. "It implies that I have forced my way in where I don't belong."

"But that's not the way it is," Oz concluded. "I am them. They are me. All men are the God…" his head turned to Willow.

"As all women are the Goddess," she finished, her face lighting up with comprehension.

"Exactly," Cernunnos agreed. "I am in all men, and I am in everything male."

Buffy calmed. She didn't understand. Not really. But if Willow thought it was okay, it probably was.

"I am the Oak King, the Stag King," Cernunnos continued. "I am the Sun, who both nurtures and burns—and all men are sons of the Sun. I am the storm: the thunderbolt and the falling rain."

"I am the Father," Giles said.

"The Brother," Xander added.

"The Husband." Angel.

"The Lover." Riley.

"And even the Son," Wesley finished.

"My wisdom is man's wisdom," Cernunnos said.

"The wisdom of the Warrior, the Champion, the Guardian," Angel said.

"The police officer, the soldier—the wisdom of facing violence so those who could not withstand violence may have peace." Riley elaborated.

"The wisdom of standing on the front line so that your death may buy the lives who stand behind you." Gunn said.

"The wisdom of standing up for yourself," Xander added.

"The wisdom of knowing how—and when—to meet force with force." Giles finished.

"Mine is the wisdom of the Hunter," Oz began again. "The fisherman."

"The Farmer," Riley added. "The wisdom of daring the woods and seas, or working your muscles raw to build or bring back what others need."

"The wisdom of the Provider," Giles concluded.

"The human spirit grows toward greater wholeness in these days," Cernunnos said softly. "Men learn the wisdom of Heart that they dismissed as being 'for women only' before: nurturing, healing, compassion. Women learn the Hand wisdom that men have kept from them for so long, especially the wisdom of the Provider." He smiled softly, and buds swelled on all the flowers poking up out of the grass. "If the Slayers always knew the wisdom of the Warrior, it's because they've always been my daughters." Then his smile turned into a knowing grin, a twinkle returned to his black eyes, and all the flowers burst into bloom. "But there's a few things that my boys can teach their sisters yet."

"Like what?" Buffy asked.

Cernunnos quirked his grin at her and sudden heat flashed through her body, settling into a low throb between her legs. Her breathing quickened and she licked her lips—not so much because they needed moistening as because her tongue was suddenly looking for something to do.

"Have you ever noticed how many women slouch?" Cernunnos asked. "It goes beyond simple bad posture. It's something they _learn_, usually right around puberty. If you cave in your shoulders enough, you hide your height, you hide your breasts—people don't pick on you as much because you're not a threat to anyone."

Oz took Tara by the shoulder with one hand and placed the other between her shoulder blades, pressing gently but irresistibly, until her spine was straight and her shoulders were back. Then he cupped his hand under her chin and raised her head until her bangs no longer hid her face.

The men—acting in unison again—all grinned in the same satisfaction as Cernunnos.

Buffy was startled by the transformation. She hadn't known that Tara was so tall. Or so well-endowed. She was at least a C-cup and her eyes were on a level with Xander's. But the _real_ change was somehow less quantifiable. Standing like this, Tara looked more powerful—like a high priestess or a queen, like a _woman_ instead of some little-girl-lost. Usually, Buffy thought of Tara as someone she needed to protect. Right now, she looked like the big sister that Buffy had never had.

"The wisdom of standing straight and tall," Oz said.

Giles crossed the circle to Joyce, who looked like someone who hadn't expected to be called on in class by the time he arrived. He took her by the shoulder with one hand, smiled at her reassuringly, then ran his fingers through his own once-dark hair.

She smiled and closed her eyes as Giles ran his fingers through _her_ hair, and Riley, his mind high, peaceful, and as clear as it had ever been, wondered if she was purring like Buffy did when he did that.

Angel knew that she was.

The men knew what was happening, but it took the women a moment to realize. One gasp followed another as it hit home: with each stroke of Giles' fingers, some of the ash-blond faded from Joyce Summers' hair, until more of it was gray than not.

Buffy felt a momentary twinge of guilt as she wondered how many of those gray hairs she was responsible for. She knew that her mother added some color from time to time. Who didn't? But she'd never suspected…

"The wisdom of being comfortable in your own body," Giles said.

Joyce's eyes flew open, and her expression turned from contentment to horror as Giles, still smiling, brought a gray lock up in front of her face. The horror faded to confusion as Giles raised the lock to his lips and kissed it.

"Smooth," Faith approved. "Very smooth."

"He's a god. Of course He's smooth," Buffy said out of the side of her mouth.

"Actually, I had nothing to do with that," Angel said, causing both Slayers to jump. "Maybe you underestimate your father."

Buffy opened her mouth to argue that Giles wasn't her father, then closed it again. She already knew the answer: yes, he was.Faith was already nodding.

The "lesson" continued as Xander approached Anya and took her in his arms. "The wisdom," he began, then interrupted himself by kissing Anya deeply. After a long moment, he released her mouth and stared into her eyes. His eyes weren't glowing anymore—probably a gesture of courtesy from Cernunnos—but there was much more than Xander in them. "Of being unafraid of your desires." Then he started to kiss Anya again and she relaxed into his arms. He reached down with one hand, cupped her ass, and pressed her against him as he ground his hips into hers. She gave a short squeal, muffled by his mouth, which then faded into a moan.

"What does he mean by that?" Cordelia asked. Normally, she would have shouted at the passionate couple to get a room, nobody wanted to see that. But strange…tonight, she did. Tonight it seemed beautiful.

Suddenly Buffy's voice wafted out of empty air: "Maybe you need to make the first move."

"That won't make me a slut?" Willow's disembodied voice answered.

Willow flushed and hunched her shoulders shamefacedly. Tara put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"None of that, now," Cernunnos' deep, resonant voice said from Oz's mouth as he put his own arm around Willow's waist.

Joyce was outraged. Hadn't her generation dealt with that double standard? It was perfectly acceptable for a woman to do the asking these days. She opened her mouth to say so—then shut it again, remembering her own shame over her dealings with Rupert. But then, maybe that was what he was saying.

_Maybe, maybe…_

Others started to think about that as well: Buffy started to look back and forth between Riley and Angel.

_Maybe, maybe…_

Faith, who had long since accepted the label of "slut" as inevitably hers and inevitably her, began to wonder.

"Good, good," Cernunnos said. "You're learning. That's what this is all about. Now…" Xander and Oz disengaged from their lovers and raised their hands as all of the other male entities in the circle were doing. "Dance." The god and the men all clapped their hands in thunderous unison.

Then Cernunnos settled back into his "throne" as the men started clapping in the two-beat-rest heartbeat rhythm that Oz had been beating out on his drum earlier.

_Clap, clap. Clap, clap._

One after another, the women joined them, stepping up into the circle and starting to clap.

_Clap, clap. Clap, clap._

They could feel something building again, but this time it wasn't some outside force waiting for the proper channels to open so it could fill them. This was something from inside, something filling them up from deep within, like an artesian well in their souls.

_Clap, clap. Clap, clap._

The men's eyes no longer glowed, but they were still wild.

_Clap, clap. Clap, clap._

Angel stepped out into the circle, clapped twice in rhythm, then stomped his foot during the break. Everyone joined him almost immediately.

_Clap, clap, stomp. Clap, clap, stomp. Clap, clap, Stomp. Clap clap _Stomp_. Clapclap_STOMP_.ClapClap_**STOMP.**

Angel took off racing toward the fire. The clapping and stomping cut off abruptly, replaced by gasps of fright and reaching hands that were far too late. No more than three feet from the fire, he planted his foot and launched himself, seeming to fly above the flames.

He landed on his feet on the other side and kept moving, spinning into a blur that only ended when he came back to a stop in the circle, letting his shirt and trench coat go sailing into the night.

The gasps of fright turned to cheers.

And then they began to dance.

Were fiddles playing? Pipes? Drums? There couldn't have been, but it seemed like there were. In fact, when they discussed it later, they would all agree that they had heard music, but hadn't known where it was coming from. And they hadn't cared, either. It was like a dream: what could and couldn't be didn't matter. There was only what _was_, and it was accepted without thinking.

At first, as they danced around the circle, their hands were joined, but soon they broke into leaping and spinning, waving and gyrating, each doing their own thing but each still moving around the circle.

As they danced, other items of clothing followed Angel's shirt and jacket out into the darkness until all the men were stripped to the waist, and all of the women were in T-shirts or even brassieres.

As Buffy danced and watched her friends dance, her mind was high and wild and empty of the clutter that usually filled it, and she saw certain things clearly and without her lenses for the first time.

Her Xander-shaped friend was actually—who would have believed it?—pretty damn hot. Willow—the person that she still saw as the shy, mousy girl who that she'd pulled out of her shell—was fully topless, her small breasts translucently white, tipped with coral-pink nipples. And why not? She was a witch, and this was Beltane. Full nakedness was sure to come at some point, and in Buffy's current state of mind nothing seemed more natural.

But there were two people she finally saw clearly for perhaps the first time in her life:

Her father—Giles—her father, his body a network of scars laid over a hard foundation of muscle. It was the body of an old warrior, battered and strong, still fighting on. It was the body of a man.

And her mother. For the first time, she saw her mother's breasts as something other than a mere part of the geography of her body. For the first time, she saw something that she recognized in her mother's smile, a smile that was neither polite nor refined. For the first time, she recognized that her mother was a woman just like any other, a woman like herself.

She had always thought of them as neutered somehow, parents instead of people, somehow used up, worn out—what had Cordelia called Joyce during Xander's love spell?—a "former". Yes, that was right, and perhaps that was how they had thought of themselves. But she saw the look passing between them, that reawakening in their eyes. Maybe they were used and worn, but they were still a man and a woman, still people of power and passion.

For the first time in her life, Buffy could picture her parents—not Hank Summers, but her _true_ father, the man before her and with her now—making love, holding tight to each other, sweating and straining, and not be embarrassed.

Nothing seemed more natural.

And the dance went on.

Then Xander caught Anya's hand again and spun her out of the circle, toward a place on the edge of the dell that had been waiting for them since the Earth had coalesced out of space-floating dust.

Gunn stopped in place and held out his hand to Faith, locking eyes with her across the circle—inviting, offering the choice. She leaped the fire, as he had known she would, took him by the hand, and pulled him out into the shadows.

The broken circle scattered. Willow, Oz, and Tara crossed their arms and clasped their hands and formed a triangle as they spun to their place, while Angel and Riley simply took one of Buffy's hands each and spun away across the ground like a propeller blade. Giles, perhaps recognizing the significance of what was happening more than the young people did, caught Joyce up in his arms and carried her off.

--

Cordelia and Wesley were left standing beside each other as the circle fragmented. Their feet fell still and they looked at each other as soft moans and cries started to come from the flickering shadows, both of them breathing harder than the exertion of the dance would have required.

Both of them, in that moment, experienced an epiphany similar to the one that Buffy had experienced during the dance. Cordelia hadn't thought of Wesley as a person at all during her initial attraction to him; just a Pierce Brosnan-like face and a cool accent. Since then, she'd thought of him as a hapless, overgrown boy, even as he'd proven himself again and again. For his own part, he'd gone from attraction to annoyance, thinking of her as a spoiled, ignorant child as they faced horror after otherworldly horror together.

Now she saw him gleaming with sweat, all lean muscle and claw scars, his eyes clear and blue. A man. For his part, he saw her fuller of breast and rounder of hip than when he'd met her; her once obsessively cared for hair sweat-stuck to her forehead and unheeded. A woman in body, a woman in spirit.

"Miss Chase," he said, his voice trembling but formal. "Will you do me the honor?" This may be Beltane, and he may be the God, but she was still the Goddess and consent was not taken for granted.

She stared back at him, her breath growing more panting and ragged rather than calming. A lifetime of training to choose for status or advantage rebelled against it, as it had against Xander and Doyle. He was poor, somewhat dorky, and…

And without his glasses she could see that his eyes were the color of a wild summer sky.

Status and advantage meant nothing to her hard, tingling nipples or the hot, rolling ball of desire growing in her stomach, or the wet, throbbing hunger in her cunt.

"What the hell," she rasped, pulling him into a kiss that erased forever the memory of those first fumblings in the stacks of the Sunnydale High library.

--

Spike closed the car door behind him and looked at the other vehicles gathered in the parking area. The wolf's van—wild horses running through a mountain stream on the side now, was it? Very pretty—the Poofter's giant penis-substitute of a convertible, the Librarians mid-life-crisis mobile, and a few of the others.

"This is the place, all right," he said as he leaned against his car and lit a cigarette. Did they really think he didn't know about this place? Demons that lived any length of time in California, or did any serious studying about the Hellmouth, heard about the place out in the desert that demons went into, but didn't come out of.

Big deal. The Sunnydale Superfriends and their LA branch were facing their "greatest foe" tonight. If it wasn't him, and it wasn't Angelus, and it wasn't even Belial—well, then, this was something he had to see.

"Threaten me with what I fear most and think it'll keep me away?" He muttered to himself. "They don't know me very well."

He looked out across the desert and saw red light rising from what looked to be a natural stone amphitheater.

"I guess that'd be the place," he said, flicking his cigarette away and tugging the collar of his jacket up. "Best get moving. I don't want to miss this."

The Celebration

There are some who believe that there are many gods; gods of life and death, field mouse and leviathan, wood and stone, automobile and internet, music and storm, television and dream. Others believe that there is One God, in a distant Heaven. Others believe that the same God is everywhere, in everything.

All of them are right. All of them are wrong.

Regardless, one thing is true: it is a truly rare thing for a god (or an aspect of God) to fully, physically manifest on Earth. That was just what was happening in the nameless holy place in the California desert that night, and it was sending ripples throughout the world.

Visionaries and seers and dreamers and the insane would see visions and speak prophecy all through the night. Many of the latter would wake up in the morning with their minds whole and well, never quite remembering what they had seen that had healed them.

Clouds coalesced from nowhere over the desert and poured down rain, everywhere but in the dell. The next day, the desert would bloom, but some of the life that was already there was washed away by flash floods.

Across the state of California, young lovers made their first experimental fumblings. New lovers were taken. Old lovers and spouses of many years awoke to a renewed passion. That January and February, the papers would note a West Coast baby boom. What they wouldn't notice was that similar baby booms had occurred in every species, including plants.

And across much of the West Coast, cardiac monitors flatlined in the intensive care units of hospitals and nursing homes alike. Trees fell in the woods and old, feeble creatures of all kinds found a private place to die, as animals often do.

But the Heroes knew none of this. And if they'd known, they wouldn't have cared. There were no gods, no life and death, no outside world. For them, there was only love and desire.

--

Buffy, Angel, and Riley closed into a triangle as they reached a clear, soft-looking spot.

"Are we going to try again?" Angel asked in a hoarse whisper.

"No," Buffy answered, reaching up and pulling her men's heads down close to hers. "Do," She gave Angel a long, hard kiss, and his tongue was cool until her mouth started to warm it, and tasted ever-so-distantly of copper and salt. "Or do not," she gave the same to Riley, and his tongue was even hotter then hers. "There is no try."

Angel and Riley met each other's eyes, then looked down at the woman they both loved, as she looked back and forth between them, a challenge in her eyes.

They understood what she had meant by her half-joke. There would be no backing out this time, no trying it out and seeing how it worked. Once they chose, there would be no going back.

They felt a hunger in them, a need older than humanity. There was lust, oh, yes—Riley and Angel's hard-ons chafed against the confinement of their pants, as Buffy's nipples showed through her tank top. Even Riley could smell her rich, earthy musk. But it was more than lust. It was the need to join with someone, become a part of them. Life moved through them, and creation, and even Angel's chest was heaving, and they knew that there was really no choice at all.

They would never know which one of them said "Then let's do it." The voice was deep, and hoarse, and charged with need, so they couldn't even tell the sex of the speaker.

This time, there would be no interruptions.

--

Giles was still coming down from his possession by Cernunnos, and although he was intensely aware of the woman pressed up against him, her breasts soft and bare and sweat-slick against the hard plain of his own chest, Revelation was still spinning through his mind.

"We've been fools," he said while he was taking a breath. Then he kissed her again, and his tongue returned to exploring her mouth. He could taste the faint, leftover sweetness of marshmallow and chocolate, but her own sweetness lay beneath it. Is this what Angel and Riley tasted? No wonder they found it so intoxicating. "Such fools. There is no old here."

She looked up at him incredulously. "I guess I need to get your attention," she said. Then she dropped to one knee, and with a few quick, practiced motions—

_Just like riding a bike,_ flashed through Joyce's mind—

His belt and fly were open, his pants were drooping, and his cock was bobbing out in front of him, so high and hard that it was almost poking him in the stomach.

"Forget old, Ripper," she said, the perfect words coming from somewhere other than her mind. "Let's fuck like teenagers." With that, she took him in one hand and sucked him up into her mouth and all semblance of Revelation was blown from his mind.

--

"What's this?" Faith asked as Gunn lifted her up and set her down on a boulder.

"This is your altar. I'm going to worship you," Gunn answered.

"Huh?"

"You've done some down-and-dirty, roll-in-the-hay fucking, and that can be plenty of fun. But you've never been _worshipped_. Every woman oughtta be worshiped every now and again."

"All right," Faith laughed. "We'll do it your way." She pulled off the sports bra she'd been wearing, then leaned forward and arched her back, jutting her small, high breasts out at him. "Start praying."

He laid his big hands on the flat of her chest, between the top swell of her breasts and her collarbone, then slid his fingertips down until they reached her taut brown nipples.

Her breathing quickened.

He kept up like that, stroking her with that same light, teasing touch. Of course, to her utter lack of surprise, he focused on her breasts—and why not? It made him happy at the same time he was driving her crazy, and that was beyond good. But he also ran his surprisingly delicate fingers over her shoulders, down her arms, across her face, through hair.

She started to purr.

Down her legs—pull off her jeans, leaving only her panties in place—then back up, slide in, along the insides of her thighs.

She started to moan.

--

Xander put one hand on Anya's waist and the other on her shoulder and bent her over a waist-high boulder. She sunk her fingers into the moss and gripped tight.

With a few practiced moves, Xander had her belt unbuckled, and her pants around her ankles, baring the smooth curves of her ass to the cool night air. He laid his hand on one of them, but then Anya's tight, husky voice came back to him:

"Xander, if you do anything to me when I'm like this, I'm going to fall. Take them _all the way_ off, Xander."

"Right." He swatted her ass once, just to remind her who had his balance and was thus in charge here (and to hear her pleasure-startled yelp), caught her hips to steady her, then dropped to one knee and bent to the work at hand.

Lift one foot. Pull the pants down off the foot. Take the other foot—

"No," Anya said, spreading her legs and planting her feet. "That's good enough."

--

Tara landed on her back in the soft grass and Willow landed on top of her, straddling her hips and pressing hot kisses into her face. Then Willow felt a still-familiar weight settle onto her as Oz's flat, hard chest pressed up against her back and the hard ridge of his cock pressed against her ass.

Tara looked over Willow's shoulder, where she met Oz's clear, dark eyes.

"I'll take low, you take high," He said.

"Okay."

"What are you—" Willow started to ask, but Tara slid her hands between their bodies and cupped her breasts, and the red-headed hacker never got the words "talking about" out of her mouth.

Tara raised her lover into an upright position. "Careful," she warned Oz, nudging the inside of his thigh with her knee to let him know that he, having backed up a little, was now kneeling directly above it.

"I will be," he said. Then he twined his arms around Willow, and his skillful fingers had the front of her pants open in seconds. One-handed. Still hadn't lost it.

Then he slid his other hand down her panties, cupping her soft, warm fur, and slid one of those skillful fingers into her cleft, which was already hot and slick.

Willow gasped at the feeling she'd never forgotten: Oz's hands. Fingers as long as Tara's, but thicker and stronger, and hard with calluses from playing the guitar, where Tara's were soft.

To feel both at once--!

Oz could still play her like a guitar, and her nerves sang in her cunt (_such a blunt word Anglo-Saxon like "drunk", so blunt and earthy, and it's been used so ugly but it's a good word, I like it, does any other word match 'cock'? I don't think so, and they're both good words, primal, like animal grunts and that's good, that's right because cock and cunt are where we stop being polite, where I stop being sweet and nice and start being _hungry_, where I stop being someone's girlfriend and start being somebody's _mate), sending a web of pleasure shooting through her abdomen. But Tara was stroking and squeezing her breasts, flicking her nipples, and the nerves up there were _purring_, and the blend was sending her thoughts spinning away in fragments.

"This is for you, baby," Oz whispered in her ear.

"Yes," Tara agreed. "Just enjoy us."

That focused her mind on a thought, perhaps the only thought she was capable of right now. "Just enjoy?" she panted. "When there's so…much to…explore?" She reached back with one hand and cupped (_cock, that's his cock, yes, I like that word_), and reached down with the other to stroke one of Tara's heavy breasts. "I don't think so."

--

"Oof!" Wesley landed on his back on the ground, then Cordelia landed on top of him. He didn't have a chance to get his breath back before she grabbed him by the back of the head and shoved her tongue into his mouth.

He was going to suffocate. But what a way to go.

No, just as he was starting to see stars, she peeled her mouth away.

"Cordelia," he gasped, unsure whether he was going to follow it with a request for a moment's breath, or a plea not to stop.

"Shut up," she commanded, her voice rough with need, as she pulled his belt open.

"Yes," he agreed, never questioning what prompted him to say "My Queen."

--

Like acolytes helping a priestess with her vestments, Riley and Angel slid Buffy's pants down her legs. She stepped out of them with regal grace, and was left standing naked in the firelight. She closed her eyes and let the sensations wash over her.

Cool, smooth hands slid up one leg; hot, trembling, callused ones up the other.

Fire and ice. Her men. She placed her hands on their heads and tried to force her hands not to clench in their hair. One short and dry and spiky, the other sweaty and longer, but only by comparison.

A hot mouth kissed its way up her belly and stopped at her right nipple, sucking hungrily. A cold tongue traced its teasing way up her leg.

Her hands slid down the broad, muscled expanses of their backs.

One was hot and slick. The other cool and dry. Her men. Fire and ice.

One hot hand slid up her stomach, and stroked her breast, trembling, so strong, trying so hard to be gentle. The other hot hand, more confident, clutched and pressed at her ass the way it knew that she liked.

The cool tongue traced up the inside of her thigh. It felt so cold against her own heat—fire and ice—and she could feel her cunt full and heavy and slippery, almost dripping wet, and she could feel her desire, coiled in her womb, growing and building and pressing—

Two thumbs opened her lips, and the tongue flicked at her clit.

"Oh, God." Buffy gasped and her eyes flew open, and they weren't just bundles of sensations anymore. There was Angel, on his knees in front of her, slowly sinking his face into her crotch, sliding his hands around her legs to press her closer. There was Riley, half-standing beside her, his head bent to her breast.

"Oh, _God._"

Pleasure flash-flared through her body with each flick of Angel's tongue, each stroke of Riley's hot hands. She could feel the pleasure building…growing…

"Oh, _God!_"

Across the clearing, Cernunnos smiled.

Building…

"Please," she begged. "Please, I'm ready for you. Now—" Then her hand, which had been stroking down Riley's back, found the waistband of his jeans. "Hey…no fair…" She gasped, her face trying to scowl. "Too…many…clothes…"

They lost no time in remedying that situation. As they were pulling their pants off, Buffy had a moment to catch her breath. Oh, she was still just as horny as ever—her lust still roiled and raged in her belly—but she didn't feel like she was about to explode any second. Not that it would have mattered if she had—she was a woman, she could come as often as she wanted, when she could get it. But she wanted something else, something more. She wanted…

Her men were standing naked in front of her now. Angel was ivory-white, while Riley was bronzed—especially his face and arms, what she'd heard him call a "farmer's tan", but really everything but his shorts-lines—but both looked like statues of some ancient, forgotten fertility gods: all gleaming, rippling muscle, their cocks high and hard in front of them.

She reached out, took hold of both, and began to stroke them.

Riley gasped and Angel moaned, and they both went rigid. They both throbbed in her hand. Hot and cold.

"I want…" What did she want? It was crazy, this was crazy, how could she even think of such a thing? "I want…you both…now…" Because it was tonight. Because it was Beltane and there was nothing else in the world that mattered but her men and her need. Fire and ice.

She needed to be more clear. "I want you both inside me…together. All of us together. Now."

Riley and Angel looked at each other.

"How do we do this?" Riley asked, trying to keep his thoughts from scattering completely as Buffy's hand slid up his length again. "I've never—oh, God—done anything…_hff_…like this before"

"I…_huh, huh_...have," Angel said. Then he caught Buffy's hand. "I'll be right back."

With that, he turned and, unmindful of audience or dignity, he ran across the circle for the oils.

--

Faith felt herself starting to tremble.

Gunn's hands were so gentle, but she felt the power in them. It was like using Angel's broadsword to shave her legs. But that wasn't why she was trembling. Her pleasure was growing from individual thrills to a constant, ever-building dynamo hum and he hadn't even _touched _her pussy yet. But that wasn't why she was trembling.

She was waiting for it to start hurting—every time his fingers stroked the delicate skin between her thighs, she waited for his hands to clamp down and pry them apart—not that she wasn't willing to open them anyway. Every time he massaged her breasts, she waited for him to start pinching and twisting.

She was getting scared. That was why she was trembling.

But why? She hadn't been scared since she'd become a Slayer. Since then, she'd been the one calling the shots. Besides, most of the guys she'd been with had been all about getting done and getting gone, just like her.

Except—

Gunn took hold of her panties—black and plain (Hey, she thought she'd been coming here to _fight_)—and slid them off. She lifted her hips obligingly.

Except Xander and Riley. Xander had tried, and that had scared her—why else would she just toss him out the door afterward? Riley had said he loved her.

But they were different. Xander had been confused and a little scared and he hadn't had the experience to live up to his good intentions. Riley had been saying "I love you" to _Buffy_.

But Gunn was here with _her_, with _Faith, _and he was _worshipping _her, worshipping _her_. Like she was a queen, or a goddess—

And he was kneeling down in front of her, lowering his head to her pussy, hooking her legs over his shoulders, giving one soft kiss and looking up at her with those eyes that asked too much, that asked that she be here with _him_ before lowering his head and burrowing into her, licking and sucking and even nipping.

The pleasure was building to an almost unbearable pitch, and she knew that she would bust her nut (_Does that make any sense oh who the fuck _cares_?_) any second now. She remembered a guy in Southie, just after she'd been Chosen, whose jaw she'd broken for coming in her mouth without warning, and realized that she _was_ that guy now. Her embarrassment just added to her fear, but it seemed like her pussy was running on a different circuit than her brain, 'cause it was getting revved up and ready to roll.

She was trembling violently now, as if she was trying to shake herself apart.

"Faith?" Gunn asked, rising to his feet. When had he gotten naked? And oh, my, didn't he look _fine_? But she couldn't help it—she just started shaking harder. "Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?" There was concern in his eyes, of course, but there was something else there as well. Something she couldn't identify. After all, she'd never seen adoration before. At least, not directed at her.

"N-n-no," she answered. "It-you-wonderful. Just…just…"

"Shh. It's okay." He gathered her up in his arms and held her tight.

_Safe_

"Whatever it is, it'll be okay. We can get through it."

'We'. They were a 'we'. Faith felt her trembling started to fade. She hadn't felt this safe since…she couldn't remember ever feeling this safe.

"Do you trust me?"

Faith realized, to her amazement, that she did. She heaved a sigh, relaxed against his chest, and wrapped her arms around him. The trembling was gone.

She trusted him. One best way to let him know.

She raised her head, looked him in the eyes, wrapped her legs around his, raised herself off the rock, fitted his tip to her opening, and slid down the length of his shaft.

Impalement. Hurt me now, if you will. Drop me, my feet aren't touching the ground. I surrender myself to you.

"Yes," she answered.

--

Giles leaned up against a rock, locking his legs and gritting his teeth against the urge to start thrusting.

The urge passed—a little—and he looked down to where Joyce's—_his_ Joyce's—now-gray head bobbed in front of him. One of the hands that had been clutching the rock against the urge to grab and hold her head in place relaxed and swung forward to stroke her hair instead.

She popped him out of her mouth and grinned up at him, but didn't stop with her own stroking. "Are you here with me now?" She asked.

"Oh, yes," he growled, taking her by the shoulders. "Let me show you."

Her grin only broadened as he lay her back on the grass.

--

On his knees, Xander gently parted Anya's labia with his fingers, like the petals of a flower, leaned his head forward, and delicately licked at her cleft, tasting her body's honey.

Delicious.

He could feel his cock, rock-hard and almost painful in his jeans. But he would take his time. Yes. And she was so, so sweet…

That was when Anya kicked him with her bare foot.

"Hey!"

"That's enough," She panted. "Penetrate me. _Now_."

Xander leaped to his feet and began tugging at his belt buckle. He didn't need to be told twice.

He was horny beyond all imagination and couldn't wait another second. So of course he had trouble getting his pants off. His zipper got caught at half-mast and his belt seemed to refuse to unbuckle until he decided to simply shove them off by main force. This didn't work very well. He struggled with the denim knot around his legs until he tipped over sideways and fell to the ground.

Anya, red-faced and panting, looked back over her shoulder at the noise and started to laugh.

"Laugh it up, wench," Xander growled, still struggling with his clothing.

"Give me something to take seriously," she taunted, swaying her ass at him in challenge.

Forever afterward, Xander would swear (and Anya would smile indulgently and nod) that he must have _teleported_ out of his little unintended bondage experiment, because the very next instant, he was up and gripping Anya's hips and slamming into her from behind.

Anya gripped the moss tighter, braced herself more firmly against the rock, and howled loudly enough to be heard over the storm and frighten animals deeper into their burrows.

--

It took a bit of shuffling about, but they finally got Tara's legs free so Willow could shove her skirt up to her waist.

That done, Willow had hooked Tara's legs over her shoulders, and buried her face in her lover's (_Yes, I like that word, I think I'll keep it_) cunt. Other nights, she might have teased her way up Tara's legs, around her abdomen, but tonight she was _hungry_. So she buried her face between her lover's legs and now she was delicately flicking at the bud of Tara's clitoris with her tongue. The next moment she had her tongue buried as deep in Tara's passage as it would go, taking as much in her mouth as she could, and she was so _sweet_, so _delicious_—she never tired of exploring Tara's body, there was always more to discover, and she was seeking and probing with her tongue—now tracing a circle of fire around Tara's lips…

But she didn't lie down flat, as was her wont. Instead, she left her rump in the air, her legs parted, open and ready for her _other _lover.

And Oz was there. He took hold of her hips and slowly eased into her and she moaned into Tara while he hissed through gritted teeth.

Oz held very still, not quite daring to thrust. She felt so _good_ and it had been so _long_, and there had been no one since her—wolves mated for life, after all, and—

And Willow, feeling him in her, filling her up for the first time nearly two years, a feeling she'd never forgotten, was completely uninterested in waiting by this point. She began to thrust back against him.

Oz hissed again as he felt her tight heat sliding up and down his shaft, forming a piston of flesh. _Hold on hold on just hold on_. He wanted to explode that instant, just empty himself into her, but he also wanted it to last all night, last forever. Gently, with just the tips of his fingers, he began to stroke Willow's back. As it always had before, that began to calm her down.

Tara, like Giles, had to resist the urge to grab hold with a hand and grind her lover's face into her crotch—or clamp down too hard with her legs. Instead, as Giles had, she reached down and began to stroke Willow's hair.

Oz, having calmed both Willow and himself a bit, was pretty sure that he could last a bit longer yet. A sudden urge from the Wolf struck him, one he had no problem whatsoever with following. He leaned forward and, very carefully, very gently, fixed his mouth on the back of Willow's neck.

Willow knew what it meant, that the Wolf was here with them, reclaiming his mate, and that was good. Wasn't that what this was all about? She arched her back and pressed hard up against him, grinding in.

Tara, who had her eyes closed, suddenly ran her fingers through hair that was much different than that she was expecting. Soft, yes, but short and spiky. She opened her eyes and looked down, to see that she had been stroking Oz. She saw what Oz was doing—she'd seen it before, of course, she was a country girl, wasn't she?—and couldn't help but grin. She reached down a little further and scratched him behind the ears.

Oz looked up into her smiling, flushed face, smiled back, and nuzzled her hand.

--

Cordelia straddled Wesley, her knees planted firmly on either side of his hips, kneeling up straight. She was naked below the waist and he had his pants around his ankles (_thoroughly _binding his feet), and she was peeling his rock-hard, straining cock away from his belly and feeding its tip into the hungry, raving mouth between her own legs when he touched her shoulder and said "Cordelia? Are you sure?"

In one way, it was a dumb question—in the way that she was the one on top, the one taking action. But there was more to the question than that:

_Are you sure that I'm the one you want?_

_I'm but a humble man, Cordelia. I'm not a hero or a wealthy man. I don't even flatter myself that I'm that handsome. I'm just a scholar. A geek, as you've so kindly put it._

_Are you sure you want to do this with _me_?_

Cordelia's reply didn't address his question—but it _did _answer it.

She took her hand away, leaving his tip embedded in her. Then she leaned forward, planting her hands on both sides of his head and staring him straight in the eyes. Then she said a very strange thing. Later, she wouldn't know why she had said it. But it was still a true thing, and it was the right thing.

"Be my friend," She said. "I love you."

Then she slammed down hard and all doubts were consumed in a fiery haze.

--

Angel returned with a jar of oil in his hands. "Lie down," he ordered "Not you, Buffy," he said, catching her by the arm when she started to do as he said. He pointed at Riley. "You. On your back."

Riley's face was blank with confusion, but he obeyed, lying down in the grass.

Buffy watched him laying back and licked her lips.

"Now you, Buffy." Angel directed. He waved his hand at the reclining Lightning Warrior. "Mount him."

She grinned up at him. "Okay, if you're going to twist my arm."

"Are threesomes always so choreographed?" she asked as she knelt down.

"Not always," He said. "But you made a special request."

So she mounted Riley, and his look of confusion was replaced by a grin, then a look of ecstasy that was almost agony as he felt her tight heat enclosing him, every slick fold and muscle gripping him. She felt his heat, his hard length filling her up and oh god it was so _good_ and she was just starting to swivel her hips when she felt a cool hand on her ass.

"Not yet," Angel said softly. "Hold still." Then the cool hand parted her buttocks, and warm oil flowed down between them, anointing her anus. Then she felt a cool finger slowly, gently sliding into her tight passage, opening her up, lubricating her, making her ready. Then the finger was withdrawn, and she felt the blunt tip of his cock, thoroughly oiled, nudging against her ass. "Are you ready?"

Buffy realized, to her surprise, that she was. This was below and beyond, this was something from the porn movies that Forrest used to run for the frat house when they didn't think anyone female was around. But somehow…these were her men, and there was no shame here.

"Yeah," she answered, reaching back and putting a hand on his hip. "Just, take it slow…careful."

"I wouldn't be any other way," he said as he slowly, gently nudged his way into her.

Both Buffy and Riley held still as Angel eased into her, carefully, millimeter by millimeter and then he was in, his hips were pressed tight against her ass, and both of her men were buried to the hilt in her and she was pressed between them and she'd never felt so _full_ and she couldn't hold in a sob of joy.

"Buffy? Are you okay?" Angel asked, alarmed.

"Are we hurting you?" Riley asked.

"No! No, you're not—please, please don't stop!"

She didn't tell them, as they started to move inside her, started to thrust, that she wouldn't have wanted them to stop even if it _did_ hurt, because she wanted them both in her, filling her, and even if it hurt, it would hurt so _good._

She felt the pleasure building to a volcanic peak in her belly and her last thought before her mind was erased by the first of a series of atomic-level orgasms, was a fierce, primal exultation at being with her men. Her _mates_.

Fire and ice.

--

Spike took hold of two rocks and pulled himself up to the top of the ridge. This was the place, no question: storms? Animals going wild? Column of light into the night sky, holding a clear spot in place? All pretty standard Final Battle stuff. Even if it weren't for all that, he would have been able to find his way here. There was a heavy feeling of power in the air, and it got stronger the closer he got to this place. But there was something odd. The power didn't feel like Angelus's or even Belial's had. It wasn't a question of degree, and it wasn't just a personal "scent". It was something fundamental.

_Ah, well. No point in worrying. You're here now, aren't you? And from all the screams and moans, it sounds like he's opened up Hell right here, just for them._ For some reason, the idea didn't please him as much as he thought it would. He refused to wonder why. Instead, he hid behind a boulder and looked down into the dell.

Well. He certainly was an impressive one, all right. Twenty feet tall if he was an inch, plus the horns and hooves. Room for the classics in the modern world, isn't there? Very passable "Greatest Foe" material. But he wasn't putting that massive bulk to any use. He was just sitting there on a rock, watching. Still, it seemed to be doing the job, because the entire happy little lot of them were writhing on the ground like—

Wait.

They weren't writhing.

_Shagging? He's making them _shag? _What the bloody blue _FUCK?

They were even with the people they would have chosen, no less. Sure, that DP thing that Blondie had going with the Poofter (going in the out door, of course. What a surprise) and Captain Righteous looked pretty intense, but "Damn Sore In The Morning" was _hardly _up to the standards of a proper archnemesis. Why, he himself had…

Uh-oh. Maybe the Satan Wannabe down there had heard him thinking, 'cause He was looking up, and—

_What the hell?_

Had something actually _moved_ up there beyond the hole in the clouds? And what gave him the impossible, unbelievable, absolutely flipped-tripped-bloody-raving-_insane_ idea that it had happened just as this jumbo-sized voyeur turned his head?

Then the giant perv rose to His feet and turned to face him and then Spike had no more doubts; the very _stars _were moving in unison with the horned giant below him. A constellation that he'd never seen before tonight, a man with a stag's head, looked down from Heaven at him as the antlered man below raised his head.

_Bugger this, then. I'm out of here._

But he never had the chance to run. The Antlered Man lifted his gaze, and their eyes met, and Spike was lost. For unlike earlier that night, when he had ordered Faith to look in his eyes, Cernunnos did not shield his eyes for the benefit of the mortal being before him.

In that moment, Spike—William the Bloody, Childe of Angelus, once a human named William—saw worlds and stars and the tiniest of microbes, living out their lives and dying. He saw the Truth, and he saw the Plan, and his own infinitesimal place in them, and he Understood as no being in the mortal realms had ever been allowed to Understand.

He saw a love that was deeper and broader and greater than any other force. A love that dwarfed Belial's hate, a love that set the nuclear fires burning in the hearts of suns and drove the greatest gears of the universe. A terrible, terrifying love like an endless ocean of light.

In that moment, as the ritual below, whose holiness Spike would never have been able to understand, reached its peak—as the men groaned and pressed tight and spurted into their women, as the women pressed hard and squeezed tight and cried out one last time; as the storm outside reached its peak, flooding out rat and rattlesnake alike while nourishing the roots of cacti and awakening the seeds of delicate flowers that only bloomed when such things happened; as visionaries all over the world saw something that they would never be able to remember—

In that moment, the demon known as Spike, named William the Bloody, Childe of Angelus, who had stolen and used and desecrated the murdered corpse of William the Poet, looked into the true face of God, and then he burned away into nothing and was gone forever.

--

Buffy awoke to the sound of a guitar playing. The storm had ended, the moon had set, and the light of a false dawn was in the sky.

She felt an unaccustomed weight on top of her, and for a moment she was disoriented. Then she opened her eyes and realized that both Riley and Angel each had an arm stretched over her protectively: Angel at her shoulders, Riley at her waist.

As carefully as she could, trying not to wake them, she disentangled herself from them and got up. She winced as she started to move, but she managed to keep the "Ow" in until she was up and away from them. Neither Angel nor Riley were poorly endowed men, and gentleness hadn't been very high up on anyone's list of priorities that night. She suspected that anyone who wasn't a Slayer would have been unable to walk.

Limping slightly, she crossed the dell, following the music to its source. She found Cernunnos, once more human-sized, playing Giles' guitar and singing something softly in Gaelic.

She paused when she caught sight of him. She was naked, her lovers' semen dried crisp on both sides of her thighs (Should she be disgusted by that fact? She pondered that for a second. She'd hardly noticed the first time with Angel, and it hadn't happened since then. _No_, she decided. _Except for the one terrible mistake that was Parker, I only have sex with men that I love. Sex is messy. They're all sticky, too, and it's kind of nice to have a reminder that the men I love have been there. Further proof that I'm a weirdo, I suppose._), and her vagina and anus were both sore from the pounding they'd taken. Was that any kind of way to approach a god?

After a moment's further thought, she realized that it was the _only _way to approach this particular god.

"Good morning," he greeted her as she took a seat on the thickly-mossed rock across from him.

"Good morning," she said. She sat for a moment, listening to him play and looking out at her sleeping friends. "Is this what you had in mind when you said 'Worship Me'?" She asked.

He shrugged. "I am a fertility god," He answered, still softly playing the guitar.

"Fertility?" She repeated, something awful occurring to her. "Oh, crap. Couldn't we have worshipped you with condoms?"

"Relax. I wouldn't add to your burdens just to make a point. Heck, I'll throw in the rest of the day free. But everyone'll have to be just as careful as ever after midnight tonight. Faith, too, make sure she gets that."

"But I thought, when we were all mind-melded, that Faith was—you know—sterile."

"She was."

Buffy's eyes went wide as she realized what he was saying. "Oh," she said. It was the only thing her mind could manage. "Good."

He finished whatever ancient song he'd been playing, and looked up from the instrument to her face. "So. Do you have your answers?"


	5. May Day

Questions

"Do you have your answers?"

Buffy looked toward the spot on the ground where her men were still sleeping. Without her to cuddle up to, they had both uncurled and sprawled, taking up as much ground as their massive bodies would allow. She looked at them, and her heart swelled until she thought it would burst. Surely no one heart could be so full and survive.

"Some of them," She answered softly.

He nodded (though she didn't see it, her eyes still resting on Angel and Riley) and started to play again. "We know We've asked a lot of you and your family," he said. "Your lives are filled with almost constant violence and danger, and you've all sacrificed so much of the lives you could have had to keep up the fight. It's not fair. But it _is_ necessary, so We do Our best to fit in a few extra blessings where we can."

"Blessings like two men of my very own?" Buffy asked wryly.

"Who love you more than their own life and flesh," he answered.

"I know," she said softly.

"Do you know how frustrating it is to give someone a blessing and then watch them be ashamed of it?" He complained, crossing his arms and resting them on the guitar as he fixed her with a look of exasperation. "The one blessing we can't promise any of you is long life, so you don't have _time_ to fit things into safe, comfortable patterns, or to worry what other people think."

"Hey, we didn't know that you sent this to us," Buffy defended herself. "We thought we were just messed up. Every religious book on this planet says that you wouldn't approve."

He snorted. It sounded more like a buck than a man. "Those books were written by men, not Us. Mortals aren't perfect, and the priests and kings who wrote those books aren't any closer to perfect than anyone else. How do you know that their judgments on life are any better than yours?"

Buffy had never thought of that. She stared up at him, dumbfounded.

"Create your own rules for living, Buffy." He said. "Don't regret anything, and don't worry about what anyone else thinks. Trust me—I can see your heart, and I know that you'll come to the right answers more often than most."

He glanced up at the fading stars, sighed, and put the guitar down. "I need to go soon," he said.

"Wait," she said. "Please. I have just two more questions. Is it okay…?"

"If you accept that some answers might be 'I can't tell you while you're still alive'," He replied.

She nodded. "Okay."

"Right. Fire away, then."

"Okay. First question: why us? I mean, lots of people, better people than us, go through life and sometimes those lives are really short and miserable and they never get to meet you face to face like this. Why do we get so much attention?"

He sighed and looked over her shoulder, out into the world. "Because you deserve to," he said. "So do they, but the Lower Beings have never broken the rules for them, as they have for you. So we can't either." Then a sharp-toothed grin crossed his face. "Besides. Do you remember what the Metatron told Cordelia? How the Deep Lords only break the rules when they see a chance for a knockout punch?"

She nodded.

His grin grew broader and more predatory. "We like knockout punches, too. That's one of the things I can't tell you about, so don't ask me. You'll find out soon enough. Next question?"

Buffy paused, chewing on her lip. He'd been very kind and polite, but every second she was in his presence, she could feel unimaginable power. Just beneath the surface. It was like talking to an earthquake. She had the feeling that the question she wanted to ask was too bold, and she didn't want to end up dodging lightning bolts.

_Besides_, something in her heart said, _the absolute last thing in the universe I want to do is make him unhappy with me, even if he doesn't do anything._

But she had to know. Or at least ask:

"This isn't the real you, is it?"

The question didn't seem to bother him. He just shook his head. "I took this form to make you comfortable," he said. "After all, it's just a man—or a giant—with antlers. You've seen stranger."

"Much," she agreed.

"You couldn't survive contact with my true form," he said. "Nothing mortal can. Just the spirit. If I said one word in my true voice, in my true language, your ears would be blasted deaf. If you caught even a glimpse of my true face, your eyes would be seared blind. Not that you'd care."

"In fact, I'd be happy, right?" She guessed. "Because I'd have heard and seen the most beautiful things possible."

"Stop that," he scolded. "If you want to worship me, go wake your men up."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. The point is, if I manifested fully, even for a moment, it would kill you. That fragile mortal body of yours would burn right away. I don't want that to happen. Thus: this form." He glanced up at the sky, then stood up. "I really need to go now," he said.

Buffy rose to her feet as well, feeling a moment of deep sadness. She didn't want him to ever leave. Then she glanced up at the sky, and her sadness was replaced by fear as she saw that it was turning pink. "Dawn!" she cried, starting toward her sleeping mates. "I need to get Angel under cover."

"Relax," he said, catching her by the shoulder. "For the rest of today, as long as the world is under my influence, he's a son of the Sun again."

"A blessing?" She asked, looking back at him.

He shrugged. "A little gift. Let him sleep. I only have a few more moments before I must return my attention to the rest of the world, but before I do that, I have one last gift to give you."

She turned back to listen.

He told her what his final gift was. As he did so, tears of pure joy started down her face. When he was finished, she threw her arms around him, no longer afraid that he would mind. He hugged her back with a gentle smile, and then he was gone.

A New Dawning

Willow, Oz, and Tara had fallen asleep curled up together like a litter of puppies.

Oz woke up slowly, deliberately keeping his eyes closed so he could open his other senses to the morning. Of course, the smell of sex and the sound of his companions' breathing drowned out nearly everything else. But there was still the smell of desert flowers on the breeze.

His hand was resting on a leg. He began to stroke it absently. He felt the soft hair and knew that it wasn't Willow's the very moment before Willow said something. "Wrong leg, Oz," she teased.

"Only if she says so," Oz said, not opening his eyes.

"I don't mind," Tara said, "If you don't mind that I don't shave. I mean, I know a lot of guys do—"

"Soft," Was all Oz said in reply.

He could hear the smile in Tara's voice. "I'm glad that you find my legs comfy."

"Hmph. When do I get _my_ turn?" Willow demanded.

Oz opened his eyes at last. Willow was sitting up, her arms folded over her bare chest, a blatantly fake petulant look on her face. "Boyfriend-stealing tramp," she muttered toward Tara, struggling to keep her face straight.

Tara looked at Oz. "Nobody's ever called me that before."

"First time for everything," he shrugged.

"Should I be hurt?" Tara asked.

"Nah. I think she's just feeling left out."

"Hey! Excuse me! Sitting right here!"

Oz's grin turned predatory. "Still, I think she should be punished for her rudeness."

To his surprise, Tara's answering grin matched his. "I think I know just the thing."

They turned those grins on Willow and she began to scoot away on her behind saying "Oh, no. Oh, no you don't—" But it was too late.

A moment later, the tickling began.

--

Angel, awakened by Willow's squeals, opened his eyes on a world that was much brighter than he was used to. For a long moment, he just lay there, waiting to _really_ wake up.

It didn't happen.

"Sunlight," he said.

Riley sat up beside him. "Looks like," he agreed.

"Why am I not on fire?" Angel asked, still not quite daring to move, irrationally afraid that the sun might notice him again if he did.

"Search me," Riley shrugged, starting to look around. "Where did—oh, there you are."

"Morning," Buffy greeted them, sitting down on the grass in front of them and folding her legs. Her skin glistened with moisture and her hair was wet.

"Did you find a stream?" Riley asked.

"Right on the other side of the gap," she said.

"Oh, good." He started to rise to his feet.

"Wait, don't go just yet," she said, catching his arm. Agreeably, he sat back down. Both of them stared at Angel, who was still hugging the ground. "You don't have to worry about the Sun," she said at last.

"Does that mean you know what's going on?" He said.

"Gift from Cernunnos. You're covered for the rest of the day."

"Oh. Good." He said nervously as he sat up. Once upright, he looked down at himself, checking for smoke. Finding none, he relaxed with a sigh. Then he grinned. "Think we could go to a beach later?" he asked.

"I was going to suggest that myself," Buffy smiled. Then she turned serious. "But first, we have to talk."

She looked back and forth between her men with a stern sense of purpose that made them both sit straighter. "So." She said. "We're really doing this."

Angel took a deep breath, purely for the sake of bracing himself. "We really are," he said.

Riley nodded in agreement.

"No one's looking at the harsh light of day and wants to blame it on the spell?" She pressed.

"It wasn't the spell," Riley said, with Angel nodding in agreement this time. Then he grinned. "We can do it again later if you want proof."

Angel's nodding became much more fervent.

Buffy cracked her first smile of the morning. "Maybe after I've recovered a bit," she said. Then her grin faded. "This isn't going to be easy," she said. "There are still some issues we need to work out."

"Transportation, living issues…" Angel supplied.

"I still have to go to college," Buffy said.

"And I'm needed in LA…" Angel added bleakly.

Riley rolled his eyes. He could already see what his role in this triad was going to be: keep the other two from falling into clinical depression. They spent more time borrowing trouble than anyone he'd ever known. He supposed that some pessimism was understandable when they'd been submerged in misery for so long. They just had to learn how to stop wallowing.

"You're both bracing yourselves for a goodbye and a long separation that just isn't necessary," he pointed out. They both looked at him, startled. Hey, if he couldn't figure out something that obvious, he would burn that B.S. in Psychology that was hanging on his mama's wall.

"There's all sorts of wonderful communications devices these days," he said to Angel. "—And LA is only two, three hours away," he said to Buffy. "Have you never heard of weekends?"

That brought them both up short. Always before, obstacles in their path had been insurmountable—most notably the Curse. But these…these were human problems. _Normal_ problems. Problems that people handled all the time. Stretched before them were weeks on the phone and the internet, eagerly looking forward to the weekend together, not months of longing.

"There's only one issue _I'm_ worried about right now," Riley continued.

"What's that?"

"How in _hell _am I going to explain to my parents that I'm bringing home a nice girl—and her nice husband?"

The rest of the dell was treated to the silver sound of Buffy's laughter, accompanied by the exquisitely rare baritone boom of Angel's.

--

"Xander?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'm aroused again."

"Anya, you are the only woman I've ever even heard of that gets a morning hard-on."

"Are you complaining?"

"Congratulating."

"Oh." Pause. "Aren't you going to do anything about it?"

"Last night notwithstanding, having sex in front of everyone isn't really my thing. Can you wait until we get home?"

"I can wait until we get in the car."

"Good enough."

--

Cordelia woke up to the feeling of something squirming beneath her, and found herself somewhat disoriented.

A cool breeze informed her that, while she was fully dressed from the waist up, she was completely naked from the waist down. Not even a sock.

Unusual sensation.

She was straddling someone, also naked below the waist, and she'd apparently fallen asleep resting her head on his chest.

Odd. Not entirely unbelievable, but odd. She hadn't had much sex lately, and her high school experiences had allowed no time for sleep, taking place as they did in cars and evenings when all of the adults were out of the house.

She blinked her eyes open, and found herself staring out sideways at a grassy field enclosed by rocks.

"Cordelia?"

Oh. Right.

"I'm sorry," Wesley apologized. "I didn't mean to wake you, but I'm just trying…the Sun…"

"It's okay," she said, sitting up and moving her head so that her shadow fell on his face rather than the bright morning sun.

"Ah. Thank you." His eyes, which had been squinting the moment before, blinked open. Yep. Still just as pretty as last night. "Good morning."

"Good morning."

Pause.

"So." He said.

"So." She agreed, folding her arms across her chest.

"Are you feeling any…regrets…this morning?" He asked anxiously.

She thought for a moment, cataloguing what she was feeling. Sticky. Sweaty. Achy in several odd places from sleeping in such an unusual position. But…

"Not a one," she reported, shaking her head. He smiled up at her in relief and she smiled back, settling back onto her haunches.

Pause.

"So," she said, looking down at him seriously.

"Yes?"

"Did last night mean anything?" She asked. "Or were we just two friends under the influence of a sex god, and we're going to leave it at that?"

Wesley blushed—

Had sex in front of everybody last night, blushing to talk about it this morning. Weird.

--but managed to keep himself from stammering when he answered. "It was that, of course," he said. "But it wasn't _just_ that. At least not for me. I daresay it meant something." Then his face took on the same utterly lost look as Giles in front of a computer. "But I'm damned if I can say what."

She smiled down at him, and he was astonished. He'd seen her smile in many different shades of humor, happiness, and sarcasm, but he'd never seen her smile gently.

"Well, let's talk about it some more, then," she said. "See if we can figure it out."

"What a fine idea," he agreed.

--

Rupert Giles opened his eyes and looked straight into the clear, piercing blue eyes of a Summers woman.

It was a pleasant experience, but rather disconcerting, somewhat like waking up to find your pet lioness on the bed with you. You know that she's friendly, but you aren't nearly so certain that she's tame.

"Is this going to get weird again?" she asked bluntly, cutting off his 'Good morning'. Ah. So that was where Buffy got it.

"I wasn't planning for it to, no," he answered mildly.

"Good," she said, sitting up. "Because this was your last chance."

She couldn't keep the edges of a smile from the corners of her mouth, and it betrayed the severity of her words.

"I'd best make the most of it, then," he deadpanned. "Perhaps when the others go home, we could go to Las Vegas? I'm sure there must be _something_ tasteful there."

Her eyes flew wide, but she kept her own voice level. "Don't be so sure about that. A tasteful wedding chapel in Vegas is like a safe graveyard in Sunnydale."

"Oh, dear."

"I'd rather have the family there anyway," she continued, indicating the rest of the group with a wave over her shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm used to putting together events at my art gallery. I can set up something small and quiet in a couple weeks."

"Oh." He smiled. "That's good, then."

--

Someone was shaking Gunn's shoulder.

"Hey, wake up. It's morning. Everybody else is already awake."

Gunn didn't want to wake up. Whatever he was resting on was much softer and more comfortable that the floor of the squatter, and the cool breeze blowing over him was so much better than the oppressive, sweaty heat he was used to.

"C'mon. Wake up, big guy."

Smiling, he opened his eyes on a sideways view of Faith, who was sitting up beside him. "Big guy. Two _very_ good words to hear on the morning after."

She grinned lewdly down at him. "Your reputation as a stud is safe. And believe me when I say I have some pretty big yardsticks to measure it against."

"That's good to know," he said, sitting up. "Is there any breakfast?"

"I don't think so, unless they gave up on trying to wake us and ate it all. You sleep like a rock."

"Survival trait," he shrugged. "Catch the Z's whenever you can, especially when you know you're safe. Never know when you might need 'em."

"Slayers are wired a little different," she replied. "We don't need much sleep, and wake up pretty much instantly."

"Sounds useful," he said.

"It is." She paused a moment, regarding him throughtfully. "You know, actually, I did sleep pretty soundly last night."

"Tired?" He smirked.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Maybe a little."

"Ouch."

She didn't even grin to acknowledge the hit. She was saying something—she couldn't believe she was saying it. Leaving herself this wide open. Last night was one thing—it's easier and safer to open your legs than your heart. But she had to tell him.

"Or maybe 'cause I knew I was safe."

Gunn's bantering grin softened, and he reached out and took her hand. "Good."

They sat like that for a moment, still and silent. Then Faith climbed to her feet. "You'll never believe what woke me up," she said.

Cozy moments weren't really their style.

"What?" He asked, getting to his own feet. "I didn't do anything embarrassing, did I?"

"Angel was laughing."

Gunn cleaned out an ear with a finger. "I'm sorry, I could've sworn I heard you say that Angel was laughing."

"I did."

"Naw, can't be. You must have dreamed it."

"Nope. Woke all the way up, and he was still laughing. Heard him clear across the circle. Kept going for—"

"Okay, now I _know_ you're shitting me."

"I know I've shit _bigger_ than you."

"Good comeback for someone who's tripping out of her skull. 'Angel laughing' my ass…"

Still bantering, they left the circle, headed for the stream that Buffy had discovered.

--

Still sore from their night on the ground (not to mention the activities of that night), everyone washed up in the stream that Buffy had found, then dressed.

There was no breakfast to be had, so everyone gathered what they had brought and headed for the cars.

Hungry and sore, they were still happier than they could ever remember being.

--

"Hey, Red," Faith said, pulling up beside the hacker and her lovers on the trail. "I got a question for you."

"Ask," Willow said. "Maybe I _have_—" she hoped to teach a bit of proper grammar by emphasized example. "An answer for you."

"You and Lobo there erased my records, right?"

"Right."

"Does that mean I'm nobody now? Or am I somebody new?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Willow said, just a touch smugly. "You are now Faith Giles."

If Willow was hoping for a moment of stunned silence, she was disappointed. Faith just grinned. "Cool. Thanks, Red. Hey, G!" She called up the trail to Giles, who was chivalrously helping Joyce down a steep spot that she didn't actually need help with. "Did you hear that? I'm your daughter now."

Giles quirked and eyebrow, then turned to Joyce. "Did you hear that, darling? We've had an eighteen year old."

"Ouch."

"Wait a second, wait a second," Buffy interrupted. "We?"

"Oh, didn't we mention that?" Giles said, starting to puff up. He quirked a glance at Joyce who just smiled indulgently, then finished puffing up. "Joyce and I are affianced."

Angel, Wesley, Willow, and Tara all made noises of surprise, then their faces began to light up.

Oz's expression resembled mild surprise for a moment, after which he smiled mellowly.

Riley, Buffy, and Cordelia looked somewhat confused, as if they were _pretty_ sure what the word meant, but not sure enough to be certain how to react.

Faith, Gunn, Xander, and Anya just stared blankly.

Giles opened his mouth to give a language lesson to the stragglers, but Joyce decided to have mercy and interrupted him. "We're getting married as soon as I can get the gallery ready for it."

Several minutes of hugging, back-pounding, hand-shaking, joyous squeals, and stunned "Ohmygods" from Buffy later, the group started to move down the trail again. Grinning, Faith joined her new parents.

"Congratulations, dad. A wife and a daughter in the same day. Not many guys work that fast. Think you can handle us both?" she challenged.

"Can I handle Joyce?" He asked. He glanced at his bride-to-be and saw a challenge in her eyes as well. "I can only do my best. But as for you—" He grinned wickedly. "Do you remember what I said in the fight in the warehouse? When I saved you from that demon?"

"Yeah, you said 'No proper hooligan goes to…' " she stopped short, her eyes going wide. "Hooligan?" She stared at him in astonishment. "You?"

He nodded.

"_You_ a JD? No _fucking_ way."

"Trust me on this one," Joyce said, sighing at some memory.

Giles blushed. "Yes, or, if you choose not to, I can show you the pictures when we get home."

The banter continued down the trail, and Joyce had just gotten around to informing Faith that she _would _get her GED and finish her education (Buffy warned the younger Slayer against struggling and Gunn was all for it: "It's a hard old world, and you take every advantage you can get. We can do the weekend thing like Buffy and Angel.") when Oz suddenly froze in the middle of the trail.

"What is it, Lassie?" Xander asked, coming up behind the werewolf. "Is Timmy in trouble?"

"No," Oz answered, still standing stiff, his nose held high and his ears perked. "Spike."

The rest of the group stopped in their tracks and fell silent. Angel took a few steps forward, his own head raised into the wind. "He's right," he said. "It's Spike."

"It can't be," Willow said. "He was warned…his worst fear…"

"It's Spike," Buffy reminded her.

"And he's whimpering," Oz added.

They took off down the trail at a run, the more athletic among them leaping from rock to rock or taking the trail in great, leaping bounds.

Moments later, the parking area where they had left their cars came into view, and their fears were confirmed: Spike's DeSoto was in among them.

"Idiot," Buffy muttered as she, Angel, Faith, and Oz picked up the pace.

--

"Spike?" Buffy called as she slowly opened the car door, being very careful that he wasn't leaning against it. She didn't want to dump him out into the sunlight. "Spike, we know you're in there."

She opened the door to find Spike curled into the fetal position against the far door, shivering.

Spike?" She asked. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Spike?" His head snapped up out of his fetal tuck, his eyes huge and wild with fear. And there was something else wrong with them…

"Who is Spike?" He demanded. "My name is William. Where am I? How did I get here? Who are you people? Why am I wearing these strange clothes?"

"Something's wrong," Angel said as he leaned against the car and peered into the darkness inside.

"You think?" Faith said.

"No, I mean it's more than that. I'm not feeling his demon through the Sire/Childe link. He's silent inside."

"But his heart isn't beating, either," Oz reported after cocking his ear for a moment. "He's still a vampire."

"Why does the sun _burn_ me? Why am I trapped in this strange…structure? Please, you have to help me!"

"It's okay," Buffy said, crawling across the seat toward him. "You're going to be all right. Why don't you tell me—"

Spike's eyes suddenly fixed on her, as if he'd found something to anchor himself in the midst of his confusion. "My god," he said. "You're wearing trousers."

Outside, Angel's eyes went wide.

She stopped in mid-crawl, staring at him. "Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?"

Apparently it was.

"Not just bloomers but _trousers_," Spike gasped. "Are you some kind of madwoman, dressing like a man?"

Fortunately for Spike, Angel called in before Buffy could deliver the answer she had in mind. "Buffy, come out. We'd better wait for Tara."

Buffy climbed out of the car in a huff. "Okay, what was that all about?" She demanded. "You seem to have a clue, so give."

"Spike's greatest fear," Angel said, turning to meet the rest of the group as they started to arrive.

"And what's that?" She said. "Don't you _even_ think about going back to Cryptic Guy on me."

"Becoming like me," he said. Then he raised his voice to hail the new arrivals. "Spike's got his soul back, and the shock has given him amnesia," he announced.

"My name is _William_!" The voice inside the car protested.

Angel ignored him and continued to explain to the gathering circle of Scoobies. "Denial, guilt, whatever—he's blocked out the last hundred years. He still thinks he's in the 1880's." He turned to Tara. "You're the only one who's dressed even a little like something he's prepared to deal with. Why don't you go in and see if you can talk him down. You're going to look half-naked to him, though, so be ready for some weird reactions."

"Okay," she nodded, then climbed into the car.

"All of the men are going to look like giant thugs to him," Angel explained to the rest of the group. "And all of the other women are wearing pants."

"Is it that big a deal?" Buffy asked, still a bit put off by the vehemence of Spike's reaction.

"It was in 1882."

--

"The Broken One," Giles muttered.

"What's that, Rupert?" Joyce asked.

"Oh? This fulfills a prophecy, or almost," He explained. "There's one more left, and I think I know who it is. I'll have to talk to Angel."

"But not today," she said. "We've been through so much already, and this is Angel's one day in the sun. No more prophecies. Let's, for once, just have some damn peace."

Giles nodded. "Not today," he agreed.

--

Tara emerged from the car. "I've got him calmed down," she sighed. "He started to remember while I was in there, and he cried himself almost to sleep. Poor thing."

"Let's get him to Sunnydale, get him someplace dark, get him some pig blood, and let him sleep it off." Angel said. Then he sighed. "I was really hoping to do more with today."

"What are you talking about?" Buffy said.

"I'd rather not chain him down. That would just scare him more. But that means that someone strong enough to keep him from staking himself will have to keep a suicide watch. I have to be there, since I'm the only one who's ever been through this before. I'll have to talk him through it."

The rest of the group looked rather disappointed. Except for Buffy. Buffy looked like she was building up to an eruption.

"What if we put him to sleep?" Tara offered.

"What?" Angel asked.

Willow took Tara's hand and grinned at her. "We can make sure that Spike doesn't wake up until at least midnight," she said confidently.

"Good," Buffy said, speaking very deliberately and evenly. "Why don't you do that?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Angel asked as the witches started chanting. "Spike—"

"Came here even though a prophecy told him not to," Cordelia interrupted. "I say, whatever happened to him is his own lookout."

"Testify," Gunn agreed.

"But now that he has his soul, he's not Spike anymore," Angel protested.

"All the more reason to let him sleep," Buffy insisted. "It can only help. You can talk to him tonight."

Angel still looked undecided, until Riley took him by the shoulder. "It's really all you can do for him, Big Man," he counseled.

Angel considered it for a moment longer, then nodded.

They all paused for a moment, listening to Willow and Tara finish their spell and pondering the plight of the world's second vampire with a soul. Then Wesley spoke up:

"What does anyone propose we do until tonight?" He asked.

"Beach?" Angel offered hopefully.

"Beach," Buffy said forcefully.

"Beach," Oz nodded in agreement.

From that, the chant grew: "Beach, beach, _beach, __**beach, BEACH!**_"

Still chanting, the world's defenders piled into their vehicles, turned their radios up, and roared off into their day in the sun.


	6. Epilogue: Healing

Kate sat in her hospital bed, flipping through her Tom Clancy novel again. She realized that she'd just read the same sentence for the fifth time and tossed it down.

She turned on the TV. Daytime soaps and game shows. Nothing but daytime soaps and game shows.

She turned off the TV and glanced listlessly around the room. The flowers she'd been given in her first couple of days here were pretty much completely wilted. And they weren't very good company anyway.

Might as well take another nap.

But she wasn't sleepy.

And when she _did_ sleep, the nightmares came…

"Hey, Kate."

She jumped—twitched, really—and bit back the burst of pain that the sudden movement brought on.

She whirled on her visitor as best she could. "Jesus, don't do that to me!" She snapped.

Angel looked sheepish. "Sorry," he said. "I don't even mean to do it anymore. It's become so automatic that I have to think about _not_ being sneaky."

"How did you get in here, anyway?" She demanded. "It's the middle of the afternoon."

"Wesley drove me to the parking garage, and I was okay from there."

"Oh."

"You seem surprised."

"I thought you were going to say that there was an entrance from the sewers in the basement, or something like that."

"Why go through the sewers if you don't have to?"

"Good point."

They sat in uncomfortable silence.

"So…uh…how's it going?" Angel ventured. He could've smacked himself on the head the second the words left his mouth.

Kate stared at him incredulously for a moment, then relaxed back into her bed with a sigh, staring at the blank TV screen. "Not so good," she said. Two weeks ago, there would have been hard sarcasm in her voice. Now there was defeat. Angel didn't think it was a change for the better. "My shoulder and my knee are too bad for me to return to work. Even desk-drivers need to pass the physical. So I'm on my way to maybe some disability, maybe a crappy pension and a gold watch—maybe none of that, because I wasn't actually injured on the job. Everything I ever owned got blown up, but that still makes me one of the lucky ones. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face, only you've got this sadistic grin instead of that gentle, concerned look you've got right now." She turned her head toward him, and where he expected to see sharp accusation, he only saw tears. And that was perhaps the worst thing of all. "And I don't even know why."

"Do you have a place to stay? When you get out of here?" Angel asked.

Kate sighed again and settled back into her bed. "Not really," she said dully. "I don't really have any family around here. I'll probably crash with one of the guys for a couple days, long enough to get an apartment. It can be cheap—it's not like I have a lot of stuff to move in."

"I own a hotel, you know," Angel said. "You're perfectly free to crash there. I have close to a hundred empty rooms, just—"

"Fine," she cut him off. Angel was actually glad to hear the curtness in her voice. At least she had some spirit left.

"There's a couple people I know who I think might be able to help."

"You know, I'm actually getting pretty tired all of a sudden," she said, turning away from him.

"Okay, uh—" she heard Angel rise to his feet behind her. "I thought that this was a little silly, but I was told that I couldn't go wrong with it. Maybe it'll help you sleep." He set something in the bed with her. "Well, uh, I'll see you later. Give me a call if you decide to take up my offer."

She waited until she was sure he was gone before rolling back over to see what he had left.

It was a teddy bear. In a tiny police uniform and hat, holding a plush stake.

Strangely enough, it did help her sleep.

--

After their less-than-successful conversation, Angel hadn't really expected Kate to accept his offer. Nonetheless, there she was, one week later, shrugging off Wesley's help as she thumped up the steps of the Hyperion with her cane.

"Don't make more of this than it is," she said to Angel, cutting off any greetings when he met her at the door. "The only reason I'm here is…" She paused, looking for the right way to finish the sentence, when she ran out of bluster. She sighed, and her shoulders and head drooped. "I have nowhere else to go. If my plan to stay with one of the guys had panned out…"

"I know," Angel said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. She didn't want his pity. "Come on, my two friends are here."

"Who are these people, anyway?" Kate asked as he led her down the steps into the lobby. "You were always so vague about who they were and how they could help me."

"Well, see, that's because they're not exactly people." He raised his head and called out several syllable's worth of hissing sounds.

Two Asclepian demons slithered out of the back room, one black with a colorful diamondback pattern, the other ringbanded like a coral snake.

Kate stopped short, staring.

"These are Sithiss and Zzerai," Angel explained. "Asclepian demons. Have you ever wondered why serpents are bringers of wisdom in so many cultures? Why the symbol of medicine is twined in snakes? These guys are why."

Kate just kept staring, saying nothing.

"Their brother, Xinniss, was the one that Angelus murdered for living up to his ethics as a healer and trying to finish his work on you. He was kind of the black sheep of their family, but he was still their brother, so they feel honor-bound to complete the job."

Kate still said nothing. The Asclepians, whose faces were usually so impassive to human eyes, were beginning to look at each other in what looked much like discomfort.

Starting to get a little irritated with her rudeness, Angel tried again. "They're—" He thought of saying 'not-evil evil things', but he wasn't about to indulge her that far. Not with them standing right there. "Good demons."

"They're beautiful," Kate said, speaking at last.

"Yes, I know they're—what did you say?" Angel said. Even the Asclepians looked surprised.

"I've always loved snakes, ever since I was a little girl," she said, hobbling across the floor toward the two demons. "And these two…they're so colorful." She stretched out her hand toward Sithiss, the diamondback. "May I?" she asked. Sithiss nodded, and she began curiously stroking her hand along his scales.

"They're here to fix your knee and your shoulder," Angel said. "After that, I have a job offer to discuss with you."

"I'll think about it," Kate said. "You were there when the LAPD wasn't. I guess I've gotten too weird over this past year." Then she looked up at him with the old steel in her eyes, and said "But first, you're going to tell me just what the hell happened back in April, or I am going to shoot you until you do."

Angel grinned. "Done. Now let's get you on the couch so they can work."

--

"She's going to say yes," Wesley said to Giles from where they were watching among the bookshelves behind the counter.

"Of course she is," Giles said, turning his wedding ring on his finger—a new habit he had picked up. "Destiny has a way of just…happening."

"So now we have our Lawkeeper," Wesley said. "God help us."

"He will," Giles assured him. "As much as He can. But until then," he patted the younger man's shoulder. "There's no use in wasting what life we _do _have in worry."

Wesley smiled gamely. "What is that saying that Buffy and Faith and Xander started? The one for moments like this?"

"Don't sweat it 'til the next time the world ends," Giles quoted.

Wesley raised his teacup. With a grin, Giles raised his to meet it, and they clinked them together in a toast:

"Until the next time the world ends."


	7. Myths of Ages to Come

Time passes, and nothing truly lasts forever. Vampires and other demons may claim to, but even worlds and stars die, and in the end, even "immortal" lives are fleeting. What was once memory becomes history, and history fades into myth.

There shall come a time, in the ages to come, that those among the Elder Races that wish to live in peace among humanity shall do so. The name "demon" shall be reserved for those among the Elder Races that still hate and wish to destroy their Younger brethren.

The myths of these later ages will tell of the Day of the Breaking, when the Walls finally fell and the Gates opened, as it had been foretold that they must.

They will tell of the Fourteen, who—with their allies the Broken One, the Heartsinger, and the Lawkeeper beside them—made their stand on the ultimate edge of the West, on the very sands where the first returned Old One had fallen. These myths would speak of how the Fourteen stood at the head of the army of humanity, the Younger Race, come into its adulthood and standing united at last. And they would speak of how the forces of the Elder Races stood beside them.

The myths will tell of the Great Spell, which joined the spirits of the Fourteen as one, so that when one fell, their strength would not be lost, but would flow into the others. And fall they did, one by one, until only the One was left. She who had been first, she whose quest had guided all of the Fourteen. And on that day, when the First had become the Last, she cast herself into the very Mouth of Hell, their spirits blazing within her, and those two sevens of pure spirits became the stake in the Heart of the Darkness. In that day, the Old Ones were driven into the Dark forever, and their curse on the world was finally lifted, and the Hungry Dead fell into ash and were no more.

Deserted by their masters and their slaves, the remaining demons despaired, and, unwilling to return to the dark places of the world, stood before the armies of the Younger and the Elder Races until not a demon remained.

And the myths will foretell that, should the world ever need her again, the One will return. And if she ever does return, then the rest of the Fourteen will return with her, and they will find each other again. For the Powers, as their last and greatest gift to the One, promised that the Fourteen would always be together—on Earth or in the Shining Realms.

Or at least, that is how the tale will be told, in the ages to come when memory has become history, and history has faded into myth.

2


End file.
